Broken Things
by DreamFlight
Summary: Some things don't go as planned. Some twists of fate lead you to places you never imagined. Some broken things are beautiful. Takes places after imagined events in Thor 2. Lokane.
1. Prologue

_A/N: It's a new Lokane! Yes, it will probably be just as epic as "Between Worlds" wass… that said, though there may well be elements in common between them, they take place in entirely different universes in my head. Also, disclaimer for this one: I'm basing early events on my own personal twist on the events of Thor 2, as predicted by me based solely on the trailer available on Youtube. So, if you feel spoiled, you probably aren't… this will likely be very AU to what happens in the movie. But I can't wait for the movie to come out to write this. There's still not enough Lokane. _

* * *

"_You must be truly desperate, to come to me for help."_

_ – Loki, Thor 2 (Trailer)_

* * *

None of this is quite how he had expected. Of course, he isn't quite as… grounded… as he once was. Things are often a little fuzzy around the edges. There are walls in his own head he can't quite break through. Hurts he edges away from in the darkness. He's always been alone; always a little lonely for it. Now he wears it like a cloak. The madness is in his veins, the darkness has wormed its way into his very being. There's no escaping what he is, what he has become.

Still, it would take a true simpleton to accept the words of a dark elf at face value. Only a fool accepts that a sacrifice must be made before first exploring all other options. Yet, here Thor is, ready (if not willing) to let his little mortal be snatched up and stolen away from him. As if she has not been his focus throughout all this. As if he has not slowed their progress to ease her exhaustion, has not given up his own rations to feed her, has not trudged across the plains and hills and mountains with one arm protectively wrapped about her. No, he will ignore all his efforts and sacrifice her, the tiny human woman who changed him. In the name of what he believes in. It's foolishness. Pure and stupid and thick-headed. It's very Thor.

And Loki is, ultimately, very Loki. And there's a spell for this, if Thor would simply _ask_ before charging in while pretending to be noble.

In the end, he doesn't do it because he cares about Thor or his mortal pet, he does it because he _can_. And damnit, if it doesn't feel good to have Thor stare at him incredulously; to have the mortal woman gaze up at him with eyes that whisper of confusion and thanks. He shrugs. Sacrifice is stupid, he tells them, when there is nothing to be gained for it and no purpose behind it. Besides, Jane's life is _her's_ to give, not Thor's.

He ignores the tightening in Thor's jaw at that; pretends he doesn't see the sudden change in Jane's expression. Her eyes have not widened. She doesn't see him for the first time. That sort of thing happens in fairy tales and hero stories. Loki has no place in either, thank you indeed.

* * *

"_We're from different worlds. Maybe they were separate for a reason."_

_ - Jane, Thor 2 (Trailer)_

* * *

Three days is what it takes them to get back to Asgard. It's less than it took to get them into enemy territory, but it somehow feels longer. Longer because none of them is actually present. They are all entirely lost in their own heads. It's as if the silent, lonely madness that surrounds Loki has spread into them like a disease. Jane won't let Thor touch her now, not after that moment spent hovering in air, caught in dark magic that ripped and tore at the edges of her sanity. She saw the moment when he gave her up. And that's all there is really. When the fate of worlds sits in the balance, _she_ is what Thor will give up. Every single time. She dreams that moment back into life every night. She dreams it, and it eats at her. It eats at her that it is Loki, bitter and twisted and hollowed out by madness and darkness, who saves her. Loki who hauls her to her feet. Loki who scolds Thor. It eats at her, and leaves her quiet and cold.

In the end, Jane thinks that this how love dies. In a sudden instant, it withers inside your chest and your throat, leaving something bitter and hollow behind. She practices the speech she will give Thor as she walks. Her eyes don't leave Loki's back. If she looks away, she'll search out Thor, and his open, honest eyes will melt the ice around her heart. She won't be strong enough to say the words until she's found the right ones, and the right moment to say them. Until then, she's better off ignoring him. Because she needs to say the words. She needs to free her broken heart from the wreckage of the what-might-have-been's.

Which is exactly why her heart breaks all over again when they return to Asgard, and Thor falls into an easy run that takes him up the steps to where Sif stands, strong and easy, as if she hadn't taken a spear through her side only a little more than a week ago. For Thor picks her up with the sort of ease that suggests practice and spins her about with something like joy, and he sets a kiss on her forehead in the same moment he sets her feet back upon earth, and the tenderness he does it with is like a knife in Jane's heart. She doesn't need to say the words, doesn't need to give Thor any speeches about how they come from different worlds and are better off apart. He knows this already. Has always known this. Only she has been the fool.


	2. Chapter One

_**Chapter One**_

Asgard is beautiful. Jane won't even try to deny this. It's a quality that belongs to the realm, clings to it in memory. It colours and shades the way you feel when you let your eyes linger on the impossible sky and sea that meet and melt in starshine and eternity. There is a loveliness that sinks into the cracks in your heart and your head. You know, in the very bones and marrow of your body, that there will never be another sight more lovely than this one. None of this matters to Jane now though. She is more than ready to go home.

It has been perhaps all of three hours since their not-entirely triumphant return. At some point between Thor's victory lap up the stairs to Sif and the moment when Loki detached himself from their retinue with all the secret motion of a shadow, Jane has been abandoned. In retrospect, she isn't entirely sure that it isn't her own fault. She might have wandered over to this empty balcony on her own, lost in thought and self-recrimination. Or perhaps she was told to wait here for some attendant or servant or whoever it is that is supposed to be responsible for helping her find her way through this maze they call a palace to what should be her rooms. In the end, it doesn't matter. She's been forgotten. Irrelevant little mortal that she is.

She wants to say that she feels numb. Instead, she's filled with an impossible rage. She's practically shaking with anger. All she lacks is a direction to shove it in. She wants to be angry at Thor, but the truth is that she has spent the last three days refusing to speak to him, shrugging out from his hugs and offers of warmth, and dodging all his attempts to engage her. She's made it quite clear that she wants nothing to do with him, so she can't quite hold it against him that he isn't here now. What would she do anyway? Rail against him with her pathetically weak fists? Yell at him for leading her on, for ripping her heart out? There is nothing to be gained.

Jane wraps her hands around the cool balcony rail. It looks like gold, and Jane half-suspects that it is. Everything about Asgard is golden and bright and full of promise. Funny then, that she feels empty and her mouth tastes of ash. She wants to go home. She wants to leave behind her sad, sorry misinterpretations, her crushed expectations, her wounded pride. She's entirely sick of being second best or least important. Jane closes her eyes. She wants to go home and start again. Start smarter.

"You," a voice suddenly says behind her, interrupting her thoughts, "You're still here."

Jane stiffens. She knows the voice better than she would care to admit. Knows its owner in so many little ways that she'll never be able to forget or erase. Knows the shape of his back, the angle of his silhouette in fading sunlight, the hopeless blue of his eyes gazing down at her with bemusement. Knows him as her saviour, even though she knows he's a murderer, and a madman. She dreams of those eyes gazing down at her, safety and life offered in the strangest of places. She swallows hard against the ball of misery and rage that is tangled in her throat. He might not require decency from a human, but he deserves something more from her, even if she cannot fathom his motives for saving her life when he's been so careless with so many others.

"Yeah," she mutters on the ghost of a breath. A sigh lifts her shoulders as she turns slowly. One hand clings stubbornly to the rail behind her, supports her exhausted body. "I'm still here," she echoes dully. She meets his gaze, hides nothing in her own. He stares back at her as his expression filters down from curiosity and surprise into something more settled. Dark eyes look her up and down; one eyebrow raises artfully. There's something masquerading as pity in his expression. "Do you know where my room is?" she asks finally. She is beyond tired, is streaked with dirt and dust, and is certain she smells. She is desperate to get out of the fur-lined clothes they gave her when this all began. She longs for the familiarity of her worn denim jeans.

"Been forgotten, have you?" he asks, though his tone suggesting he needs no response, "That's the price of falling from Asgard's golden prince's favor, you know."

Jane feels the ball of frustrated anger tighten in her chest, choke her throat. "I've been forgotten?" she demands, "What about you? Shouldn't you be back in…"

"My cell?" he finishes, as if he has anticipated her question. He slinks closer with the grace of a wildcat, slumps against the railing of the balcony near her. His eyes drift out across the starscape beyond them. He looks like he has been putting himself back together. He is clean, for one, and the tangle of his dark hair has been pulled back into something approximating tame. He still reminds Jane of a wild animal. Something in the stiffness of his shoulders suggests that he is ready to attack at any moment. The casual posture and careless tone of his words is measured, a practiced deception that Jane can feel in the air. "I've been wondering the same, myself," he admits. An elegant hand waves dismissively, "They will remember soon enough."

"And in the meantime you'll what?" she spits, "Enjoy your freedom?"

He turns his head to look at her, levels her with a feral gaze and a wolfish smile, "You think I'm free, little Jane?" His voice is mocking. Dark eyes dance in amusement, see her anger as entertainment.

She looks away. There is something unsettling about him. He isn't safe. There's a madness glimmering in his eyes that denies the existence of any genuine empathy or feeling, no matter what words or body language might suggest. There's a scheme being hatched somewhere in the recesses of his mind even now. His gaze on her is weighing her out, portioning the value and the purpose of her existence. She wonders if he knows why he saved her, or if he is evaluating his decision even now.

"Come now, dear little creature," he murmurs, "What could possibly be wrong?" He pauses, "Certainly all this sorrow isn't over Thor?"

A kinder voice would suggest sympathy. Instead, Jane hears the mocking cruelty of the statement. His tone suggests that she's a fool, a small animal he's coaxing into the open, that words will have no meaning to her. She shakes her head and feels the frown pull tight across her lips. "At least you know where you can get clean in this place," she mutters darkly. There's an unguarded envy in her voice, and that seems to simply inspire him to greater heights of mirth. He laughs, a sudden bark that escapes him without thought. He seems as surprised as she.

"You are a strange animal, aren't you?" he drawls lazily. His eyes slip shut as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. He's the perfect portrait of a predator. "I suppose," he begins finally, "That I could aid you in your search." He leaves her plenty of opportunity to turn down his offer, but Jane is tired and sore and worn down past her ability to second guess anyone's motivations, let alone his. She shrugs and tells him to lead the way.

In any other situation, Jane is certain she would be fascinated. There are artifacts and paintings and hangings and the whole history of Asgard seems to be on display. But Jane is beyond her curiosity right now. Zombie-like, she trudges across marble floors, leaving trails of dust and depression. She follows Loki with the same single-minded focus that got her across the plains and hills and mountains of the dark elves' realm. Silence accompanies them as they slip through halls and atriums and antechambers, each grander than any Jane has seen before. She passes it all without ever truly processing it. She watches, numbly, as he pauses at a door and presses an open palm against it. The door swings open and Jane suppresses a sob at the sight of the room she had spent one single night in before her ordeal had truly begun.

His head whips around to look at her. There's a sudden wildness in his eyes, an alertness that brings Jane back from her trance-like state. "What is it?" he snaps. His patience is apparently wearing thin. If she had any sense of reason left, Jane would simply thank him and stumble into the room. He would go, and she would be safe. Well, safe as she can be in an alien realm. That isn't what happens though.

Her eyes dart across the room, catch and focus on the clothes they've left for her. "I…" Jane chokes on the lump in her throat. All the rage and misery is unwinding, spooling out into a puddle of ragged feeling, and she would curse herself for the tears welling up in her eyes, if only she wasn't simply so tired. "They've left me more dead things to wear," she says finally. Her voice is small and thin and breathy, holding back the sobs in her chest that are leaving her even weaker than before.

There is a long pause. Jane stands very still, her breathing heavy in her ears. She doesn't expect sympathy from him. Doesn't expect him to understand the things she feels. She isn't entirely certain she understands them herself. She watches Loki move from her side, step towards the bed, nudge the pile of fur-covered things that have been left for her. He looks back at her, an expression of curious amusement written across his face. "You have an aversion to dead things?" he asks slowly, drawing out the words so she can hear for herself how very ridiculous she sounds, "After wearing them this long?"

Jane bites her lower lip. Pure willpower is all that is keeping her from falling apart, and she really does not want to fall to pieces here, in front of _his_ unsympathetic smirk. "I was almost a dead thing," she says finally as her voice wavers. She won't cry in front of Loki. She won't.

He stares at her for a long moment with dark, calculating eyes. He turns to look again at the pile of furs on her bed. His sigh punctuates the dismissive wave of his hand that relegates the furs to somewhere simply _else_, since they cease to exist on her bed. "Better?" he asks, turning to her once more. There's something soft in his voice now, as if he is speaking to a child. It isn't a tone Jane has ever imagined him to be capable of. But then again, perhaps all this is a dream. It does seem absurd enough.

"What will I wear?" she asks quietly. There's a pleading note in her question, as if his tone actually has turned her into a child.

He tilts his head just slightly to the right as he looks at her. For a moment, she feels as if she is a puzzle to be solved. She watches as he reaches out into thin air and pulls a bundle of clothing out from nowhere. He holds the bundle there before her for a moment, then sighs again. Elegant fingers reach down to her side, wrap around her hand, and ease the clenched fist open. Jane stares at the hand that holds her own with wide eyes and a strangely hollow feeling in her head. She knows she's beyond exhausted, and the possibility of this all being a dream swims back into the realm of possibility. After all, it is entirely impossible that Loki would actually touch her, isn't it?

Objectively, she's conscious of just how pale his skin is, how clumsy her hand looks held in his own. Her nails are ragged and torn, chewed down to nothing. She thinks that they are only the smallest indication of the stress she's survived since the moment she discovered Asgard was a real place.

"Jane," he says. His eyes are staring down into her own, all amusement stripped away by what could be the ghost of concern, or worse, recognition. As if he sees something in her empty gaze that he knows. And that thought, terrifying as it is, rouses her from her revelry. The bundle of clothes is pressed into her open hand. She lifts her free hand on her own accord. The bundle is pulled close to her chest. "Problem solved," he murmurs.

Jane spreads her fingertips across the impossibly soft fabric, and she is once again filled with the longing to escape the itchy furs that rest on her skin. The clothes she holds now, coloured in midnight black and deep emerald, feel light as silk. Jane stares down at them, at how she has clutched them to herself. She looks back up. "Why are you being so kind?" she sputters suddenly. The incongruency of _Loki _taking care of her has finally echoed down into whatever parts of her brain are still functioning.

"Kind?" he echoes, eyebrows lifting in surprise, "What makes you think I'm doing anything that is kind?"

Startled realization hits her like a lightning strike. "These are your clothes," she says, finally grasping the situation. "You want me to wear your clothes…" the words die in her mouth, connotations far from lost to her. There's a glimmer of irritation running through Jane's veins at the thought of being used by Loki in such a way. She isn't a chess piece for him to move across the board in whatever way is most annoying to Thor or useful to him. "They'll be too big," she says, her voice suddenly and stubbornly insistent.

"They adjust," he replies, his lips curling and his eyes dancing with the challenge. And then Jane gets it, that this is all just a game to him. She really is just a toy, a mayfly, a speck in the eyes of gods. Insignificant. And what he's offering, if she wants it, is simply the smallest revenge on Thor. This is the only hurt she can inflict: the choosing of her gods.

"It's petty," she says finally, dismay colouring her tone. She's supposed to be better than this. She's supposed to be above letting herself be used in the screwed up pissing contest going on between them.

"I've never claimed I wasn't," he says, his voice entirely bored now. He's already given up on her playing. Or perhaps his attention span is just that short. He's a monster, really, if anything of what she's read in the SHIELD reports is true.

Of course, Jane is a woman betrayed. She runs a hand absently over the fabric once more. It truly is the softest thing she ever felt. It is only for a night, she thinks, perhaps a day. And then she will go home and try to forget that the Norse gods are based on real beings. She'll forget all this pain, all this shame. All of this will be nothing. But Thor's last memory of her will be of her wearing Loki's colours. It truly is petty, but Jane's never claimed to be perfectly grown-up about these things either.

"Fine," she says finally. The single, short syllable sends Loki's dark eyes darting for her's. The amusement is back in them, alongside some new appreciation that leaves Jane feeling more than a little guilty. She shakes her head, "It's better than the furs," she mutters, knowing somehow that the words won't help her. He's already seen the worst and taken some sort of joy in it. She can't get back that shred of self-respect now.

It's only after he leaves that Jane realizes that she's never actually thanked him for saving her life.


	3. Chapter Two

_**Chapter Two**_

When she wakes, its with the sudden knowledge that something has shifted within her. The aching misery and rage have slipped away in the night, leaving her feeling strangely light. There is a solid beam of sunlight illuminating the bed in which she lays, and a breeze fragrant with alien perfume is floating in through the window, sending the diaphanous curtain into a motion that reminds her of dance. She sits up, pushes back the gloriously overstuffed feather duvet that lies on top of her, and resists the urge to roll around in the sun-warmed silken sheets and unrealistically soft clothing she's worn throughout the night, regardless of who their actual owner is. She feels oddly content. She might even say she's happy, though such a thing should be impossible.

The reality is that she's a hundred million light-years from Earth, on an alien world, after trekking though several more and having played a role in saving the entirety of the nine realms. She's accomplished more of her impossible dreams in the last ten, miserable days than she has in the whole of her life before that. What her heart feels or doesn't feel about Thor is hugely irrelevant in the face of all that. What she's seen and done and experienced could re-write every understanding that humankind holds dear, and then some. When she returns to Earth, she'll be _the_ expert. The only human to travel outside of the solar system, to visit alien worlds.

Jane slips out of the bed. Her bare feet pad softly across the stone floor. She stops at the window and pushes the thin fabric away with her fingertips. Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue. Gardens stretch out before her. The sound of swords clashing causes her breath to stutter in her throat before she hears the laughter and taunts that surround it. There's a weapons practice happening somewhere just beyond her view. There's a world out there so far advanced beyond even her understanding of the universe that it makes her head hurt. And they still use swords as their primary weapons. Swords and giant, heavy hammers. Jane laughs at the impossibility of it all, because what else can she do? Who will believe her when she returns home? Jane laughs because she has everything, and nothing, all at once.

When the laughter begins to border on tears, she pulls herself from the sunlit window. Reality can be kept at bay for only so long and she supposes that at some point she will need to leave this room, if only to find out when she's going to go home. The clothes Loki gave her seemed to shorten of their accord as she slipped into them last night. Magic, of course. More sober now, but only just, Jane steps in front of the elegantly gilded mirror she's avoided until now. She took three baths last night, trying to scrub away the dirt and dust and exhaustion and shame. She still doesn't feel clean. It's almost as if the dark elf's magic has left a residue on her, slick and impossible to be rid of.

She's afraid of what she will see in her reflection. She expects that the creature she sees will be miserable and worn out, with hollows under her eyes and a tumbled mess of curls going everywhere at once. As soft as the garments she wears are against her skin, she still suspects that she will look like a vagabond in borrowed clothes. She sees nothing of this.

Instead, the mirror shows her at her best. Her hair is tousled indeed, but in the way that she's only seen in magazines. It tumbles down in perfect waves to settle in a solid, glossy stream on her shoulder. The emerald of the tunic she wears brings out the copper highlights she's always suspected were there. She looks well-rested, her complexion shockingly clear after spending the past eight days living in filthy campsites. And the clothes most certainly do _adjust_. The tunic and black pants have apparently melted onto her body, hugging her curves to the point that she looks like she's been poured into the garments in seemingly perfect proportions. She feels like she's discovered the secret of these terribly beautiful Asgardians and entered into their ranks over night. Maybe it's the water.

The knock on the door interrupts her theorizing. Jane casts a glance over at the doors, blinking against the brightness of sunshine on gold gilded doorframes. Her room is a study in light. It seems to have been decorated with an eye for the exact optimization point between simple and airy, and positively baroque. She's reminded of golden, lazy afternoons. Which is the exact thought that has her questioning just how long she may have slept.

"Yes?" she barks, suddenly ashamed of the time she's wasted in front of the mirror. She covers the steps between where she stands and the door, settling a hand upon its rich, smooth, wood surface. There's no handle, but it falls open at her touch, bending to her will, perhaps.

There's a shadow darkening her doorway, comfortably slouched against the door jam. A predatory smile looks her up and down, settles at her tense frown. The shadow detaches itself with grace and a flutter of his dark cloak. The entire movement is oddly reminiscent of a raven taking flight.

Jane steps back, evading the oncoming invasion of her private space. "What do you want?" she asks, the words coming out more tersely than she's meant.

"And here I half expected a hero's welcome," he says. "Though," he pauses just a footstep inside the room, "I suppose the scenery is thanks enough."

Jane pulls her arms around herself, uncomfortable for not the first time in Loki's presence. "You're sick," she says, her tone quiet and dismissive all at once, as if she isn't entirely convinced of what she means herself.

He rewards her with a raised eyebrow and a twitch of his smirk. "So I'm told," he retorts as enigmatically as ever, "But you do look good in my colours."

It's too much for Jane, who's already felt like she's battled the extremes of her emotional range today. She looks away, hugs herself a little tighter, hopes her discomfort speaks for itself.

"I'm here to escort you to breakfast," he says suddenly, "I assumed you would be somewhat lacking in the desire to wander the palace aimlessly, as you showed such reluctance to do so last night."

Jane looks back to him. His face is an emotionless mask. Even his eyes give away nothing. "I…" she stutters, "That's…"

"I believe you're looking for the word _kind_," he supplies. There's a mocking note to his words, and Jane doesn't fail to catch his reference to their last conversation.

"I see," she says, watching him with measured suspicion in her eyes. Her arms loosen slightly. She's suddenly aware of just how hungry she is. Of how she's agreed to play this game of his, whatever it might be. "Alright," she says, running a hand through her curls and tugging at them slightly, "Lead the way."

"But ladies should be escorted," he adds, offering an arm with the motion of a gentleman and the exaggeration of a postmodernist. Jane hesitates for a moment. This way lies madness, she is sure. The mask abandoned, she can see the wildness in his eyes, the devil in his smirk. She's walking a very thin line between amusing him and pissing him off. She'd almost rather he hadn't decided she was interesting enough to pay attention to. On the other hand, its his attention that kept her alive. Jane takes his offered arm, mirroring his exaggerations. If he wants to play this game, she supposes she should follow his rules. At least until they change.

* * *

Sound is Jane's first clue that they are close to wherever it is that food is served. She's only seen Asgard in the midst of battle, and even then only for a day. There was no time then for anything but field rations. The sound of dishes and utensils clinking makes a sort of music accompanied by a melody of voices and laughter. She glances once at Loki. He's been silent as he's guided her through the halls, and while his expression is easy, his eyes are deeply guarded. He looks down at her for a moment, catches her staring. There's the ghost of a smirk on his lips as they turn a corner.

The silence is deafening. Jane is actually quite sure that she could hear a pin drop. The spoon that falls from someone's hand into a bowl certainly makes quite the clatter. She supposes that this, then, is the reason behind his imitation courtly manners. Alone, he could have slunk through the shadows. Accompanied by the mortal baggage Thor foolishly brought along from Midgard, he's a neon sign. The tightening of his arm on her own as he drags her into the room is enough to suggest that he likes the attention. Of course, he's the god of mischief. It's possible he just likes the confusion written across their faces.

Jane sighs gently. "Too much to hope for a quiet breakfast, I suppose," she murmurs in a voice low enough for only him to hear.

"Quite the contrary," he replies back, his voice smooth and sure as it fills up the room, "A quiet breakfast seems to be exactly what we'll get."

There's a sudden shuffling and voices rise in non-intelligible chatter. "Smooth," Jane mutters, this time addressing no one in particular.

"Smooth?" he prompts, freeing her arm as he directs her to a table piled high with sliced fruits and breads and cheeses.

Jane blinks, but its just a question. There's no other motive in those dark eyes beyond curiosity. "Ahh, like, slick," she falters, noting the way his head angles when he's trying to figure something out. "They were all really obvious," she says, a hand waving at the scattering of people who are still watching and listening with half an ear.

His gaze softens slightly. "Sarcasm," he suggests, "I understand."

His selection seems to take all of thirty seconds, but he waits for her to fill the plate she finds. His fingers dance across the fabric at the back of her elbow, directing her to an empty table to sit at. Plates set down, Jane finds her chair pulled out for her. "Alright," she says quietly, as she settles into the offered chair. Nervous eyes search him out as he moves around the table, "You're officially scaring me. What's with the manners?"

He smiles a shockingly pleasant but entirely insincere smile. "I was raised a prince of Asgard," he says in a tone that verges on bored, "Manners are what should be second nature."

But they aren't, Jane finishes in her head. She narrows her eyes at him, throws her already suspicious gaze around the room. "Who are all these people?" she asks quietly, shifting topics. She's known Loki personally for all of ten days, but its been more than enough to teach her that he is consistently inconsistent and likes keeping people on edge. And the abrupt turn from frosty silence to personalized attention since they've returned to Asgard definitely has her on edge.

"No one particularly special," he says with a dismissive wave. "Various minor functionaries, a few Einherjar," he takes a moment to take a surprisingly delicate bite before returning to the more vicious slicing of things on his plate, "Nurses and doctors from the healing rooms."

"Trying for a clean bill of sanity," she deduces, saying the words before she takes the moment to clearly think about who she's saying them to.

He freezes first. The knife in his hand pauses. The fork slides to the plate. It takes Jane three bites of her pastry to realize exactly what she's said. The pastry falls. "I mean," she sputters. She swallows hard, blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, "That was so completely out of line…" She trails off as she catches his expression. He looks surprisingly far from murderous. She's seen the news reports and video footage from last year, suspects she's spent far more time watching and re-watching them than she would ever admit. She thinks she knows what he looks like when he's about to kill someone. She takes a deep breath. "I say things," she begins, "Completely inappropriate things. I'm a complete social wreck." She looks everywhere but at him, "I'm really bad at parties." Her saving grace has been that he finds her amusing. It's the only play she's got.

"I've known worse," he says in a tone both distant and flat. The fork lifts from the plate. The knife returns to its former motion. "What makes you think I'm not sane?" he adds, as if such a thing were an entirely normal topic of breakfast conversation.

Jane stares at him. His eyes are focused on reducing the items on his plate into increasingly tiny pieces. Sunlight scatters on the darkness of his hair. He's less pale now than when she first faced him, confronted with the entirely horrifying idea of having to rely on her planet's would-be conqueror as a guide. Hiking for days across foreign realms apparently being good for colour. He looks up at her very suddenly. His eyes are the blue of the night sky during a full moon, and are just as clear and bright. There's something very fragile behind them. He's living behind illusions, she realizes, holding himself together with a patchwork of lies. She's not used to being so perceptive about people. She realizes that she looks ridiculous about a moment later, sitting there with her mouth hanging open in surprise.

"Let me rephrase," he offers, "What makes you believe that anyone is sane at all?"

Jane shuts her mouth. Continues to stare. "What do you mean?" she says finally, "Of course someone's got to be sane…"

His eyes give nothing. "Are you?" he pushes, his tone still jarringly conversational.

"Of course I'm sane," Jane begins, feeling the strangest chill across the back of her neck.

"What makes you believe that?"

"I…" Jane struggles to find a definition that works, but her field is physics, not psychology. In some ways, she's probably not the perfect example of sanity. She's obsessive, impulsive…

"Consider," he continues, "You're sitting here, eating breakfast in the realm of beings your people once considered gods. You're sitting across from one who's killed probably hundreds of your kind, wearing clothes you've borrowed from him, playing at friendship, or perhaps something more, in order to get back at the god of thunder, who either broke your heart or wounded your pride." He tilts his head, lets a bitter smile cross his lips. Fork and knife abandoned, his fingertips balance against themselves, "Have I missed anything? Perhaps your troubled scientific career, in which you insist upon focusing on topics and theories that won't provide you with funding or legitimacy? Your delightfully dysfunctional personal life? Your sublimated childhood traumas?"

Jane shifts in her chair. "I said I'm sorry," she whispers. There's a sudden influx of uncertainty in her gut. Her appetite is gone. She's suddenly aware of how much danger she's in. How much danger she has always been in, but conveniently decided to ignore somewhere into the second day of following him across unknown realms. She pushes out from the table, not enough to leave, but enough to add the space she suddenly needs to breath. "How do you even know any of that?" she adds, "About me?"

"I had plenty of time on Midgard to make a study of Thor's woman."

"Don't call me that," she says mechanically.

"What?" he mocks, "Thor's woman?" There's something spiteful in his words now. "But that's exactly what you _were_. Are you suggesting that you are something else now?"

"I'm suggesting that I'm no one's woman," she says quietly, words leaving her before she can think and be smart and simply leave this alone. She can't win against Loki. She shouldn't even try. It is, after all, entirely possible that he saved her just so he could kill her himself. It's a horrifying thought to have over breakfast. "I was never his," she adds. "It was one kiss. One kiss. I've lived with guys before, and I would never have said I was their woman either." She's making such a great stand for herself and her independence. Speaking to her plate, as she is.

With herculean effort, Jane forces her eyes up. "Do you do this to everyone?" she says suddenly, "Cut them up with words and twist the truth until its all lies?" She really has no filter between her head and her mouth, or she'd stop. But the truth is somewhere in-between the things she's saying and how she's saying them. "It's really not surprising you're alone," she says, "You force them away."

"And that's insanity?" he asks, his voice a venomous whisper.

"What if it is?" She thinks she's caught him now. Caught him in what she's not sure. She's forgotten who started this, where it began, but she's focused now on winning this. Making her point, whatever it once was.

He shrugs, picking up the fork he previously abandoned. He stabs at the pieces upon his plate, takes a bite so purposeful than Jane feels like he's keeping her waiting on a reply before he's made any indication that he intends to continue to speak. "I suppose," he begins, "That if that's the measure, I can't see what makes you believe you're sane either."

The net pulls closed and Jane wonders if she's been drowning this whole time. He's perfectly calm and unaffected. The eye of the hurricane of destruction he wreaks. He's making an art form out of making her feel insignificant. At some point she'll have to question what his perfect conclusion means. She'll have to wonder if he might be right, she might be as crazy as he is. They might all be, actually. But not over breakfast. She'd rather sit here in aching silence staring at beautiful food that she has no appetite for than think of that.

* * *

There's no escape from him, apparently. Every movement, every twitch in her seat, has his eyes searching for hers. His stare locks her in place, reminding her that without him she's completely lost in this place. Dependent isn't a word Jane likes to use in connection with herself. The idea of being dependent on Loki being about a hundred times worse. So she stays in her seat, eyes darting around the room, longing for the morning coffee she's been going without.

"I only ask because you'll have to answer the question soon enough, anyway," he says suddenly. His plate is empty, fork and knife placed in perfect symmetry.

"Which one?" she asks softly, "Your sanity or mine?"

His eyes shine in the morning light. "Both," he replies.

"I don't understand," she mutters, defeat leaving her voice flat. The majority of the people in the room have long since left, sneaking out on tip toe with backwards glances. There are a few armoured guards gathered still around a table heaped in what might be twelve assorted varieties of grape. The Einherjar, she supposes, unwilling to leave her alone with Asgard's most infamous son.

"Your precious SHIELD will likely have questions for you. And I somehow doubt that Asgard is well-matched to whatever assumptions your kind have made about advanced civilizations." Jane stares at him with poison in her eyes. The sinking feeling in her gut reminds her that she's had these very same thoughts herself. He gives her a cold little smile, "And, of course, the All-Father wants your side of the story before he determines what my fate will be for the rest of eternity."

Jane feels her guts tie themselves in knots. "Why does he care?" she whispers, suddenly terrified at the thought of facing not just Thor, but the king of gods.

"Indeed," Loki muses, a bitter grimace crossing his features.

"What am I supposed to say?" she hears herself ask, realizing the absolute stupidity of her question even as the words fall from her lips.

He raises an eyebrow at her, amusement softening the grimace somewhat, "I doubt you're supposed to ask the convicted what he wants you to plea."

There is a long, tense moment that stretches thin. Jane sighs, shifts in her seat. "You saved my life," she says finally, "What am I supposed to say? That my life makes up for all the humans you killed on Earth?"

His eyes are watching her with an alien remoteness. "While that would be nice," he begins, "I doubt they would agree, even if you were so inclined."

"Why did you?"

His head tilts to the right, "Why did I what?"

"Save my life," Jane swallows, forces her eyes back to his, "What could you gain from saving me? Wouldn't it have been more… _entertaining_ to see Thor suffer?"

His fingertips drum across the table's wooden surface. "Would it?" he parrots back, "I'd think that seeing him realize he is hardly as omnipotent as he believes would be far more satisfying. Thor isn't at the center of the universe, after all. It was simply time someone reminded him of that fact." His shoulders hunch as he leans forward ever so slightly towards her, "Why should it matter? It worked out well enough for you, did it not?"

Jane's jaw falls shut. She watches him as he slides from the chair with a predator's grace. He stands, towers over her for the barest moment, then extends a hand down towards her. She accepts, mirroring him once again. Unsure if she fears the fact that he can kill her with a flick of his wrist or that he can tear all she holds certain to shreds in one lightly philosophical conversation. She stands, only inches away from him, tilts her head up so she can make eye contact. She's so tiny, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. "You don't even know, do you?" she says finally, ghost words set free on the edge of a breath. She gives her head the barest of shakes, "That is insanity, you know."

His hand tightens upon her own, pulls her closer, tucks her arm into his. "I know," he murmurs, his breath ruffling the hair atop her head like a summer's breeze, "I never said I disagreed."

Jane shivers again.


	4. Chapter Three

_**Chapter 3**_

He's taking the long way. She has no idea how she knows this, for the palace is simply a giant maze to her. Her confusion has been further compounded by the terraces and half-enclosed balconies that seem to lead off in all directions, linking to further buildings and towers until Jane isn't entirely convinced that the palace doesn't simply extend into every corner of Asgard. But there's a twitch in Loki's face, and every so often he freezes in place, halfway down a walkway or midway up a flight of stairs. His arm tightens just slightly around Jane's, and without a word he directs her back the way they've come. There's a tension in his jaw that suggests a growing, coiling frustration. Still, he seems entirely focused on exploring every byway and passage that they find.

After the ninth pause, Jane pulls her arm ever so gently from his own. His dark eyes are on her in a moment, screaming his disapproval. She tilts her lips into a facsimile of a smile. "I want a break," she says, "We've been wandering for, like, an hour." She watches his frown deepen, but he says nothing in response.

Shaking her head ever so slightly, Jane turns from him. Her eyes drink in the golden sunlight and the way the warm, reddish stone of the terrace seems to soak it in. Her hands find the edge of the waist-high wall and she leans into the summer-like breeze that dances through her hair. In the distance, she can hear the waves of that impossible sea of starlight breaking on a diamond shore. She sighs, ever so quietly. "This place is impossible," she murmurs, eyes closed still.

"Hardly impossible," he mutters back in darkened tones. There's something in his silence that suggests that he's watching her with those cunning eyes of his.

Jane turns her face into the sun, lets the warmth sink through her closed eyes. In a moment like this, she isn't sure she's actually ready to leave at all. There's so much she doesn't know. So much she hasn't seen. She can't really be ready to leave it all for the dreary, grey skies of Washington.

"Do you really want to return to Midgard?" he asks her suddenly, and with the sort of perfect timing that has had Jane wondering on several occasions if he might not be capable of reading minds. Her eyes fall open, settle upon his. He's watching her with a seriousness in his expression she isn't sure she's encountered yet. There's almost something urgent in his tone. He's horribly perceptive, Jane thinks, as she watches his eyes narrow as he studies her. Her answer must be written across her face, in the angle of her shoulders, in the curve of her spine, because though she says nothing, he seems to locate the answer she's hiding in her soul. He turns his gaze away from her and out into the orchard that fills the hollow beneath their terrace. "You don't, do you?" he says finally, "You know it has less to offer."

"But its home," she says softly, "It's where I belong."

Some words rub him the wrong way, she thinks, watching his jaw lock and his posture stiffen. He seems entirely absorbed in a staring contest with a particularly heavy-laden apple tree. There is something terribly lonely about him. He's a dark space in this golden world, separate not least for choosing to be so. He doesn't fit. Doesn't even want to try.

Jane runs her fingers across the red stone wall. Its warmth radiates into her fingertips. She bites her lower lip, lets the thousand fears she has about returning home wash over her. "No," she says softly, "I don't." She swallows hard, wishes she was talking to anyone else but him. "I'm afraid they won't believe me. That I'll have so much to say, but no one will listen. That I'll just end up back in the desert. Alone." She looks past the orchard, to the hauntingly eerie sky filled with comets and nebulae that are just too close. She wants to reach out and touch them. To trace their patterns down onto paper so she can hold onto them for just a little bit longer than her imperfect memory can. "I'm afraid I'll never see anything this amazing again," she whispers, "I'm afraid I'll forget it all. Afraid I'll never get to see what else is out there."

There's something at war within her. She's not sure who she wants these things for: herself or humanity. She's spent her whole life justifying her work with the explanation that what she does is for everyone. That her loneliness and her dedication to her fringe theories have been about pushing the edges of science, about expanding humanity's horizons as a whole. She's not as sure about that now. Not after her time with SHIELD, buried in reports and paperwork and old data. She's missed the stars. Missed her lonely explorations. It is entirely possible that everything she's done has been for no better reason than that its what she's wanted to do. Regardless of who it helps or hurts or what the consequences might be.

She doesn't want to be selfish, but she suspects that everything about her existence this far has been exactly that. The realization burns. And she doesn't even dare to voice it aloud. Its just one more thing she would never expect someone like Loki to understand. And its too important, too central to her identity, for her to let anyone or anything dismiss it away.

"Are you ready?" she asks finally, pushing herself off of the wall and turning to her erstwhile guide.

He blinks at her, inscrutable as only he can be. "Am I ready?" he mocks, "I've been waiting for you to decide to finish your sunbathing."

Jane rolls her eyes, "Are you for real? Even I can tell you've been taking us in circles for the last half hour. Its you who's putting this off."

His eyes harden to flint. "Very well, _Miss _Foster," he extends his arm once more, "Please, let us continue."

Jane accepts the offered arm with exaggerated grace. "It's _Doctor_ Foster, Loki" she corrects in clipped tones.

"And I am a god," he spits back, "Haven't you realized that no one stands on ceremony anymore?"

* * *

Even after her delay in the garden, Loki takes at least another hour to come to what must be their destination. After any number of sudden stops and turns and seemingly endless backtracking, he ends up taking them down a small, shadowed hall that Jane is entirely certain they have passed at least three times before. The tension in his jaw has only increased. His silence has grown deeper. Jane's even beginning to suspect that he's bordering on the edges of anger, though why or for what purpose, she couldn't say.

He pauses in front of a small door, suspicious for its lack of ostentatious gilding, though for little else. There's a long moment in which he glares at the door with a dark intensity that tells Jane less than she thinks it should. As if in afterthought, he shrugs her arm from his and throws back his shoulders in a manner Jane could only describe as haughty. He presses his hand upon the relatively simple wood paneling, pushing it open before them.

It takes Jane a moment to understand where they are. Lost in the deep shadows by this side door, it isn't immediately obvious that have, in fact, entered the great hall. But there it is. Columns of white marble lift an impossibly high, vaulted ceiling far above them. Hangings in crimson and gold hang at regular intervals. Slashes of sunlight blaze down through the hall, interrupted by but indifferent to the stone walls and floor they splash across. Jane finds that they stand at a far edge, half-hidden from the central dais and the two figures that stand upon it.

"I see you took your time, Loki," booms a surprisingly calm and deep voice, "I do believe the summons went out several hours ago."

"I'm afraid I was busy testing the bounds of my prison," Loki replies, his tone sharp enough to inflict wounds, "Your invisible fence is very thorough."

The figure closest to them turns fully. "Loki," he begins, "You know how things must be. There is little enough trust already. My own advisors are…"

"Spineless, mewling curs?" Loki supplies, bitterness undercutting the feigned helpfulness in his tone.

Jane blinks fiercely as she looks between the two. Odin wears an expression weighed heavy with age and regret. Loki's words seem to only deepen the lines that cross his face. She sees no trace of anger. Only resignation.

"Why do you jest?" Thor says suddenly, emotion carrying him down several steps of the dais towards them, "You know this was a test, and you purposefully chose to make the worst show of it."

"Did I know that?" Loki echoes drily. "I suppose if I hadn't been certain before, I can be now. It's so good to know that I've earned back your trust by saving you all from…"

"I did not need you to interfere!" Thor interrupts, fury spreading across his features.

"Of course you didn't," Loki soothes, "My interference was only necessary if you wanted to spare your dear mortal's life."

Jane swallows hard. The bitter lump of misery has decided to put in a reappearance, and has swiftly settled into her throat and chest. She steps out from the shadows behind Loki. She only hopes that the sight of her will force Thor's decency to undermine his pride. She doesn't want to hear any more about how expendable she is. How losing her might have been preferable to being in Loki's debt. Thor's insinuation has been only the most recent hurt applied to her ragged and worn-down emotions, and she knows that it shows in her face. She cannot help the wariness with which she regards him, the tenseness in her posture, the scars of dead love that must be visible in her eyes. His own actions have put these things into her. She tries not to feel guilty at the way he flinches when he sees her. The way the light in his eyes dims. The way he falters for a moment. "Jane," he says dumbly, the single syllable of her name falling like something dead onto the rich scarlet runner beneath his feet.

"It's fine, Thor," she says. She tells herself she can't help the slight waver in her voice. That she doesn't feel a moment of vengeance in his guilt as he winces at her words.

"I did not mean," he begins, one hand lifting from his side as if he means to begin an impassioned plea for forgiveness.

"I doubt anyone means much of what they say," Odin interrupts, "In moments of passion and pride." He gaze flickers between his two sons as he shifts heavily, "Though I suppose that Jane's presence does complicate matters, somewhat."

Jane can still feel the weight of Thor's eyes upon her. More than guilt, perhaps, swimming in their depths. She feels herself lean back, almost imperceptibly, from his form and where he towers above them, still halfway up the stairs of the dais. She's felt his gaze upon her before. Until now she's always taken a sort of pride in it. That even beneath layers of old sweaters or furs, she's still attractive to a man who walks among literal goddesses. That glimmer of lust is less desirable now.

There's an annoyed sigh just behind her, and she starts, shocked by just how near Loki is. Somehow he's wormed his way into her personal bubble without her notice, though she supposes that having been dragged around on his arm for half the day could have helped with that. He places a cold hand on her shoulder, patiently redirects her out of his path. Jane watches as he steps past her, suddenly faced with the reality that it was _she_ who had invaded _his_ space as she shrank from Thor's gaze. The implications aren't something she's ready to deal with.

"If it's all the same," Loki drawls, flashing Thor a wicked smirk as he slips past him upon the stairs, "I would rather hear whatever it is you have planned than stand around all day listening to pleasantries and admonishments." He stops only once he's reached the top of the dais, gaze set level with Odin's single eye. "You set a test. I'm supposing I did not pass. I saved the mortal. I tried to take over their planet. Back to the cage?"

Odin sighs heavily, "Why must you do this, Loki?"

Loki gives him a brittle smile, "Do what, exactly? Be as I am? You know very well I know no other way."

Odin shakes his head. "Lady Foster," he says instead, turning and peering down the steps to Jane. "Please, join us here. I cannot stand the thought of looking down upon you."

Jane stares up at him, weighing exactly how rude it might be to decline the offer to stand any closer to ancient and powerful beings that she doesn't trust. She takes only a moment to decide that it hardly matters. She doesn't like the idea of being looked down on either, now that its been put that way. She's careful not to look at Thor as she passes by him. Curses the tight fit of her clothes as she feels his eyes follow her up. Curses Loki for giving her such clothes as she catches the sharp glitter in his eyes, as if he knows full well the point they've served to illustrate.

She ignores it, however, and turns her full attention to Odin. She's gripped by an intense urge to curtsey, or perhaps bow, but having never done anything of the sort before, she stands still instead and looks the All-Father straight in the eye.

"Lady Foster," he murmurs, nodding his head, "I can see why my sons have made such a fuss over you." He ignores the impatient snort Loki gives behind them. "I hope your time with us has not prejudiced you too badly against us."

Her mouth is impossibly dry, and she can't think of what words she could possibly say even if it weren't. She's been kidnapped and poisoned and filled up with dark magic and spirits. She's come as close to death as she's ever been, offered up as a sacrifice by the man she had somehow believed she loved, and rescued by a murderer. It's hard for her to honestly say she's got no hard feelings. "I was told," she says finally, the words finding their way out without conscious thought, "That you wanted me to tell my side of the story."

Her tone is so much colder than she'd expected it to be. She sounds icy and impersonal. It's the tone she normally reserves for dealing with stupid questions and personal attacks at professional conferences and her thesis defense. She watches Odin's eyebrow lift in surprise, feels Loki's sudden shifting movement behind her.

"I'm sure you were," Odin says quietly, his tone measured as his gaze searches the occupied space behind her, "But surely you would rather hear about when you can return home?"

Jane tilts her head slightly, sets her jaw. She's surprised at herself. There's a hundred questions pounding away at the inside of her skull, and until this very moment she would have agreed with Odin about exactly which question should be first. But there's something about all this that is making her twitch. She feels like a little girl, being excused and sent to bed while the grown ups do the talking and the deciding. As if by nature of being human, or female, or a crackpot fringe scientist, she doesn't need to be part of the bigger conversation. And that just makes her angry, because from what she's seen of Asgardians, they are just as flawed as she is, and make plenty of mistakes. "I'd just as soon hear what exactly you plan to do with Loki first," she grinds out, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

"Jane," she hears Thor say, "What does that matter? Why should you concern yourself with his fate?" His tone is halting, as if he's putting pieces together and building the entirely wrong picture. She's going to blame this on the part where she's wearing Loki's colours.

"He saved my life," she says quietly, meeting Odin's gaze steadily with her own. "And it was my world he tried to take over. And my people he killed. I'd say I have more than enough reasons to hear it out."

"And those are your only reasons?" Odin regards her carefully. She can see a certain cunning in his grey eye, as if he is trying to read her for any other influence.

Jane grits her teeth, sets her chin, and stares hard at him. "Yes," she says firmly, "Those are my only reasons."

"As exciting as this is," Loki interjects, "I am still waiting on my judgment here. No rush, of course. I am so eagerly awaiting eternity and such."

Odin's gaze jumps to Loki, "I'm afraid I can't let you be free. Not yet, anyway."

Jane takes a half-step back, feels the fabric of her sleeve rasp across the leather of Loki's armour as she half turns to watch his reaction. He seems perfectly calm. Dark eyes rest upon Odin. Stillness settles across his body. "Back to the cage, then?" he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk.

"For now," Odin says. "You must know I don't want this for you, Loki."

"No," Loki replies, a curious half-smirk on his thin lips, "You want a puppet king in Jotunheim. But we don't all get the things we want now, do we?"

"Again with this?" Odin runs a hand wearily across his face, "When will you believe that I have only ever had your best interests at heart? You are my son, nothing more and nothing less."

Loki stares at him with impassive eyes, "But I'm not your son."

"In every way that counts…"

"I'm not your son," Loki finishes. Something dark slithers beneath his gaze and for a moment, Jane grows cold.

"I cannot make you believe…"

"No," Loki interrupts again, "You cannot."

Odin's expression has grown tight. The lines around his frown have deepened further. He takes a step back, straightens his back. "Loki Odinson…"

"Laufeyson," Loki says mechanically. He blinks. "Actually, can we just drop the son part? It's all rather tiresome, after all."

Odin's expression looks increasingly pained. "Loki," he begins again, his voice gruff on the truncated name, "I sentence you to a return to…"

"And what if I don't _want_ to?"

Jane blinks. Loki's tone borders on flippant, and he stands now with his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. He's the picture of nonchalance, never mind that he's blatantly challenging the established order of things. Odin's expression reflects a cascade of emotions. Surprise is followed by dismay, which gives way in turn to a deep, sorrowful acceptance.

"Then I will summon the guards. If you won't go willingly."

"What if I choose not to go at all?" There's a hardness in his eyes now, an icy, flint-like expression that screams danger.

"Loki," Thor growls behind them, "Will you not reconsider this course of action?" His words are slow, meaning made more plain than implicit.

"And what will you do?" Loki challenges, turning tightly on his heel to pierce Thor with his cold gaze, "Kill me?"

"If that is what it takes. I promised you as much…"

"Even if it means going through Jane?" Loki purrs, his hand darting out and seizing Jane's shoulder with a suddenness that has her stumbling into harm's way. "I know you were willing to sacrifice her once. But how do you feel now? Just how much of the guilt has settled in? You aren't so thick as to have missed exactly what you've lost, how deep the hurt you've inflicted upon her has been."

"Loki," Odin's voice booms behind them, "End this foolishness." The threat in his voice is steeped in the promise of pain.

Jane trembles with fury. She is wholly and entirely sick of being used, of being shoved into danger and harm. She's supposed to be smarter than this! And worst of all, she has no delusions left to her. She's prepared to die. Again. She just wishes it wasn't going to be at Thor's hands. She had been so sure she'd escaped that fate.

But Thor pauses, frozen in indecision. His face is a mask of hatred and despair, a mirror of the expression he wore when they faced Malekith. "Jane," he murmurs, his tone ragged with emotions that she's given up on him feeling. "I am so sorry, Jane," he says, his gaze falling from her, "But I will not be the hand that causes your last breath. I will not."

"Sentiment," Loki gloats. And then Jane feels like the world is being ripped apart, beginning with the inside of her stomach.


	5. Chapter Four

_**Chapter 4**_

There is a rushing in her ears as Jane falls to her knees. The marble floor rushes up to meet her, and though she catches herself on palms and knees that scream with the promise of bruises, her eyes stay stubbornly shut. There is no moment of respite before she finds herself desperate to get air into her lungs, past the dry heaves that wrack her body. She coughs, the sound harsh in her ears and her throat. She lets herself fall to her side. The marble is cold, soothing against her suddenly fevered cheek. Even through her jacket and jeans, she can feel the coolness easing her tense body.

Which is the moment her eyes fly open. Because last time she checked, she had not been wearing jeans. Been dreaming of wearing jeans, yes. Been wishing she was wearing jeans, most definitely. Actually been wearing them? No. Not even remotely.

The adrenaline races through her veins, a sudden jolt to her jarred system. She forces herself to lie still as she catches her breath and waits for the nausea to pass. There is a lot to process, and jumping to her feet while feeling like crap is not going to make anything easier. So she lays still, her eyes focusing on her surroundings. The cool marble floor, the rich crimson curtains that flutter in the edge of her vision, the lazy golden light that fills the room. Jane takes a deep breath and sits up slowly. She knows she's still in Asgard. Still in the palace. And that is enough to calm her down a little. There's no sign of Loki, but that fails to surprise her. Having a hostage would only really slow him down.

Jane folds her legs up into her chest. She feels like she's been punched in the gut and her shoulder is a bit stiff from the way he pulled her so suddenly in front of him, but it's no worse than her bruised knees. It isn't the physical that hurts, if she's honest with herself. It's the moment Thor freezes, stares at her with a hundred broken glass truths in his blue eyes. Why is she any good as a shield? Why is Loki so certain that her presence will stop him?

Jane's hand flails for a moment, slapping down onto the marble floor as she struggles to understand this new information. She remembers how Thor ran to Sif. The stiff, angry silence between them as they travelled back to Asgard. The expression on his face as he determines that her life must be sacrificed to save everyone else. Is it possible that she's been wrong? She swallows hard, her eyes darting around the room. She feels like she's been a perfect fool, wrapping herself up in her own hurts. Letting Loki play her like a chess piece.

There's really only one thing for it. Jane stands up slowly, rubbing her arms through the layers of fabric she wears. There's the jacket, the worn plaid shirt, the t-shirt beneath it. All vaguely familiar for being hers, though she can't quite understand how she has them here and now. There's something itchy at the back of her mind, like this particular ensemble, as tasteless as it is, is somehow significant. She shakes her head. There's only one direction that will take her towards answers, and that is forward. She presses her hand on the door before her and pushes it open slowly.

The hallway before her is almost eerily quiet. There's a distinct lack of people, and while that might not be terribly unique about hallways in Asgard, it is definitely unsettling. Jane presses onward, her sneakers scuffing softly on the marble beneath her feet. She's tempted to call something out, to attract the attention of anyone who can help her get back to where she's supposed to be. Namely, back in front of Odin with the time and place of her departure firmly in hand. This is the last time she gets caught up in all this. The last time she questions how Thor feels about her, or how she feels about him. And definitely the last time she gets within arm's reach of Loki.

She turns a corner, stares indecisively at the doors and passages that lead off of it. "Damn it," she mutters, "Next time you get dragged through half the palace, pay attention, Jane." She lifts a fingertip, tapping her chin a few times in indecision. "Eeny," she whispers, swallowing down the feeling that she's being just a little ridiculous as she jabs her finger in the direction of the nearest door. "Meeny, miny," she points, finger hovering in air as she debates a narrow passage. "Mo," she concedes, her finger moving once again. She pauses, shivers, and pulls her jacket closer around herself. "Catch," she whispers, her feet taking her further down the hallway. "A tiger," she shivers again as goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. She tugs tighter on her jacket, debating doing it up. Somewhere in the distance, she hears the soft rumble of conversation. She smiles, her eyes alighting on the doorway at the end of the hall, "By the t-"

Her triumphant whisper is cut short by the sudden pressure of a hand flat across her mouth. Strong arms wind their way around her waist and pull her back. The suddenness of the movement sends her breath gusting out against the cool hand over her lips. She's held flush against a body that feels like its made of steel and leather. Armour, she thinks, somehow already knowing whose. His breath is a soft breeze at her ear, "Stop struggling." Which has roughly the opposite effect, because Jane has had fully enough of this voice's owner. With a hasty precision born of fury, Jane opens her mouth and brings her teeth down with as much force as she can muster.

"I said," the voice grinds out at her ear, "Stop. Moving." His arms tighten even more tightly around her. The hand flattens even further against her mouth, preventing any movement of her jaw. The distant rumble of other voices is closer, approaching the far door, and Jane writhes against the body she's trapped against, every movement serving only to tighten his grasp upon her. She's desperate to escape. If she can only get free enough to make a sound when that door opens… She times a solid jab of her elbow into what feels less like a leather or metal plate, and is rewarded with a soft grunt of what might not be pain, but is certainly irritation.

The door opens, and the two figures behind it stand very still. Bright red eyes dart down the hallway. Nostrils flare as deep breaths are taken. Jane falls still, feels herself actually press closer to the suddenly familiar and comparatively safe body behind her. With wide eyes, she watches the two impossibly tall, impossibly blue, people enter the hallway. There's a lump of fear in her throat as she takes them in. From their snarling, pointed teeth to the jagged blades jutting from their very arms, they scream danger and violence. Its pure instinct that tells Jane that even being in Loki's clutches is preferable to being in theirs. Darker lines and swirls decorate their bodies, though whether they are natural or the product of scars or tattoos, Jane could not say.

In a long, frozen moment, their red eyes rake over Jane. She stares at them, helpless and still, standing only because Loki's arms keep her trapped against his own form. The eyes glance past. One growls something in an incomprehensible language. The other snarls something in response. Their gravelly voices grate at her ears as they argue over something. Behind her, she feels Loki stiffen. There's a string of words that pass Jane right by, and one that sticks, though only because Loki reacts. A ghost of a disbelieving breath across the shell of her ear. The shorter of the two beings before them finally shrugs. The blade jutting from his arm melts away, leaving a surprisingly normal (though still blue) arm behind. They leave the hallway.

For a small eternity, Jane stands frozen. She feels Loki's arms loosen, feels his hand fall away from her mouth. Her eyes are glued to the far end of the hall, at the corner she turned herself only minutes ago. She swallows hard, takes a mechanical step forward. "How did they not see us?" she gasps, fear leaving her breathless. She turns on her heel, eyes searching Loki's face for answers.

He looks surprisingly unruffled, though his eyes are troubled and linger on the corner of the hall still. "Invisibility spell," he murmurs distantly, eyes narrowing as he shakes his head slowly. "This is wrong," he adds.

"Wrong?" Jane says, her voice rising, "What the hell were they?"

Loki's eyes center on her own. There's a slight twitch in the corner of one. "Never," he says suddenly, taking a very sudden step forward,"Never fight me again." He lifts a hand into her face, flexing it there as if it is suddenly stiff. There is a very red mark in the center of his palm and Jane shrinks back. "Trust me, Jane Foster," he hisses, "I just saved your life. Again. And I can't say I'm particularly fond of your method of thanks."

Jane stares at the mark on his hand and wonders exactly how hard she would have to bite to draw blood. There's a faint ache in her jaw that suggests that she probably couldn't manage it. It's a thought that makes her head hurt. "…trust," she hears him say, "I don't expect…" Jane fights to get her gaze back up to his. He's speaking still, the words flowing over her like water.

"Trust?" she says quietly, interrupting the stream. "The time before this, you used me as a hostage and a shield," she pauses, watching his face. His eyes have narrowed, his mouth falling silent, though not quite closed. "How did you know?" she rasps out, "How did you know he wouldn't just go through me?"

He blinks slowly, tilts his head slightly. "You mean Thor?" he says finally, watching her closely. Whatever it is he's looking for, he sees, because he continues before she can speak. "He loves you," he says quietly, "Do you think that would stop just because you don't love him?"

The words are like a knife in her heart. It strikes Jane, very suddenly, that she feels guilty. She shakes her head. "No," she says slowly, "He can't love me. He was going to sacrifice me…" The words fall away.

There's the ghost of a smirk playing on Loki's lips. "Jane Foster," he begins, "Are you really so special, so precious, that your life is worth more than every other being in this universe combined?"

She looks away. Stares down at the worn toes of her sneakers. _No_, she thinks_, I'm really not. _She says nothing. She suddenly understands the misery she feels. The anger she can't direct. She's angry at herself. Guilty. She's tortured Thor for a decision she should have been proud of him for making. Because what sort of person would sacrifice everything else for _her_? And what kind of person does it make her, for wanting that?

"They were frost giants," Loki says suddenly. His words cut through the haze in Jane's brain and her attention refocuses back on the present. On the blue beings that wandered down the hallway. On the fact that Loki has, in all likelihood, saved her life again.

"What were they saying?" Jane asks. She knows she's supposed to say something. It seems as good a thing as any.

He looks at her, bemusement in his eyes. "What makes you think I understood a word they said?"

Jane shuffles awkwardly. "I," her voice dies of shame in her throat, "You... stiffened." She patiently ignores the sudden shine in his eyes, "You breathed."

"I breathed?" he prompts as his tone suggests that he's laughing at her once again.

"And they said that name," she struggles, "The one you said in the throne room. Laufey." The amusement in his expression melts to nothing as Jane blunders on, "Who is Laufey?"

There's a weighted pause. Loki stares at her. "He was the king of the frost giants," he says finally. His eyes, his voice, the set of his shoulders scream out that there is much more to be said. And it must be a lot, Jane figures, because he can hide almost anything.

She waits. Loki stares at her, combative and stiff. She sighs, shrugs, and goes for the obvious. "You said," she begins, "In the throne room." He stares at her, eyes betraying nothing. "You said your name was Laufeyson," she says finally.

"I did."

Jane watches as he pulls himself back together. "And?" she demands, refusing to let go of this, even as he levels his shoulders and calms the storm behind his eyes.

"And?"

"And are you?"

He stares at her for a long moment, "Am I the son of a frost giant?"

Jane blinks, "Right." Nervously, she licks her lips, returns her gaze to the tips of her shoes, "That is kind of crazy. I mean, there isn't exactly a family resemblance…"

Her words trail off as she lifts her gaze. There's a jagged blade stretching from his arm, its icy blue tip just inches from her throat. The exposed skin of his arm and the right side of his neck has taken on a decidedly blue tone. "It's a very clever deception," Loki murmurs, his eyes taking on a reddish gleam in their depths, "Even fooled me for a very long time."

Shock has left her silent. Silent, but not without her reason. There have been a thousand occasions during which he could have killed her. And he hasn't. Instead, he's saved her. Repeatedly. Though perhaps only for future use as a hostage. It's still a fact. And she's still Jane. Curiosity drives her every move.

The hand that lifts is shaking. The fingertip trembles before it settles. And it pulls away with the instinctive speed of a reflex. Loki stares at her. Jane tries again. Puts the tip of her finger against the tip of the ice blade in her face. Pulls it away wet. She meets his shocked eyes. "You melt," she comments, her voice grave.

His laughter is far more disconcerting than the fact that he's an alien with strange powers. After all, he was exactly that before she ever knew he was actually blue.

* * *

If she had a choice, she would not be following him. Especially not after the laughter had him wiping away tears with his once again normal-looking hand. She already knew he was off-balance. Now she's beginning to understand just how far off he really is. She spares a stray thought for her own sanity, then dismisses it. There's no other option beyond following him. She's better off keeping the hurricane of emotions in check until after the world starts making sense again.

"I don't understand," she says finally, interrupting the silence that has settled between them. "Shouldn't people be looking for us?" He says nothing, spares no glance for her. "Loki," she insists, "Whatever it was you did… that new spell? We are still in Asgard."

"I may have," his jaw tightens, "Miscalculated."

Jane is silent for a long moment. "Miscalculated?" she says finally, "What do you mean?"

Loki stills, his eyes drifting morosely. They stand in one of the open passages, and the setting sun is glowing and sparkling out on the surreal waves. The Bifrost Bridge, newly repaired, shimmers in the light. "I mean I miscalculated," he says stubbornly, eyes lingering on the Bridge.

"Because of the spell that keeps you in the Palace?" Jane presses, settling her hands onto the wall between them and empty air. She narrows her eyes, stares down at the scenery below. "You travel through existing wormholes," she muses, "But theoretically, you could create tiny, short-lived ones." Loki gives a noncommittal grunt. "If magic could somehow let you burrow through space-time, then you could leave one place and land in another instantaneously. If it bumped up against some other spell, it could be… re-directed? In space-time?" Jane looks at him sideways, wondering if her tenuous understanding of magic is anything approaching accurate. She looks down at the Bifrost. The Bifrost that lacks the patches and repairs that she's familiar with. "Did we," she swallows hard, "Re-direct in space-time?"

Loki says nothing. Which is telling enough for Jane. "When are we, Loki?" she breathes, "When?"

He turns slightly, looks at her hard for a moment. "We're about to re-live the worst night of my life," he says finally. His jaw is tense, his eyes cold and flat. "I hope you will understand," he says slowly, "That I have no desire to do this again."

Jane blinks. She blinks and Loki is gone. And now, now the terror in her chest explodes.

* * *

She isn't sure how long she stands in the passage by the empty window, aware of the danger of wandering frost giants, but unable to care. She finally sinks down, her back to the view that should be impossible. She understands now why this particular set of clothes is so deeply familiar, so meaningful. It is exactly what she wore on the day Thor first left her. The day she first thought she could love a god. The day which is apparently making a re-appearance.

She doesn't know when the tears start. She only knows that she thinks she might drown in them. She can't do this all again. Can't face years of waiting for Thor to come back. Can't face looking at him with love in his eyes. Can't face the fact that here and now, she's supposed to think she could love him. She can't do it. Not with this empty feeling festering in her veins, the product of selfishness beyond compare. She wanted him to choose her. In that pivotal moment, with the universe in the balance, she wanted _him_ to choose _her_. She could have sacrificed herself for him then. She could have gone out with a light heart, even though it wasn't her time, all because someone loved her that much. She could have made the sacrifice herself, if she'd had a reason to make it.

But that isn't how it happened. And she tortured him, in her own way, for the choice he made. The right choice. The choice that she should have been proud of him for making. The choice that proves that he's a good person; a great person. The sort of person who should be a king.

Maybe this is for the best though. God knows, she'd be useless as a queen.

* * *

There are alarms now. Thundering feet. Screams and yells. A brilliant flash bang behind her head. Her head aches with emotional exhaustion. She wonders if this is how it happened the first time around. Then again, there's the part where she's wearing what she wore that day. The part where Loki has skipped town, apparently no longer bound by the spell cast years into the future. If they've been removed from the timeline, haven't played the parts they were meant to play… She turns her head, curls in on herself. If she could sleep, curled up against a stone wall, she would do so right now. Reality, if that is what this is, is too much for her to take.

"Jane."

With a jolt, Jane turns her head. She's never heard her name murmured with such emotion, such wonder. And it forces an ache into her guilty heart, because it is Thor who stands there, gazing at her with joy in his eyes. His crimson cape drifts in the evening breeze. He looks every inch the hero. It makes her feel worse.

"Jane," he says again, his voice rough with emotion, "We feared the worst. You disappeared… I swear Loki will pay. I…" he falters, "I know not why my brother has done what he has."

Jane manages a weak smile, takes a fluttering breath., "He's not your brother," she says, swallowing a hiccuped sob, "He's a frost giant." She doesn't expect him to believe her, just thinks it would be nice for everyone to have all their cards on the table for a change.

Still, it surprises her a little when Thor's gaze turns pained, "Oh Jane, I am so terribly sorry. I know not what you have faced." He draws nearer, sets Mjolnir down and settles onto his heels. "I promise," he says in a voice filled with warmth and assurance, "Whatever you have been told, or think you have seen, it is merely the effects of battle and…"

"Thor," she interrupts, though her voice is strained, "I'm not some wilting lily, and I'm not delusional. He told me."

Thor's eyes speak of pain. His warm hand lifts, pushes a tangle of curls out of her face, tucks it gently behind her ear. "You are safe now, Jane. I promise this." In another time, in this time when she was a different person, she would have leaned into his hand, borrowed some of his strength. She doesn't have that ability now. The fact that he wants to take care of her instead of believing her stings. And makes her feel increasingly guilty. Because who is she, in this time and place, to demand his trust?

Jane gives him a weak smile, "I promise I'm not crazy."

His hand closes heavily around one of hers. "I know," he tells her, though his eyes are troubled, "I should get you somewhere safe."

"There are frost giants attacking," Jane says quietly, "You need to go deal with them, don't you?" It's the least she can do, offer him a way out. A way to rush off and save the day. It's what he's best at. What he's meant for. She's an afterthought only.

His face is suddenly thoughtful. "I should get you to safety first," he begins.

"Please, Thor," she says in a pained whisper, suddenly wishing that this wasn't too little, too late. That the love she'd felt for him hadn't died already, leaving only this ghost of what could have been in her heart. "Go save the day. It's what you're supposed to do."

He stands suddenly, his fist tightening on the handle of Mjolnir. His head cocks to the side, listening for the sounds of battle. His feet are already pounding across the marble floors when Jane lifts herself to her feet and follows. Slowly, though. She has no desire to end up in the middle of whatever battles Thor fights.

* * *

"Come to me, Laufey," Thor thunders, Mjolnir raised high. "I will strike you where you stand!"

"Please do try," the frost giant snarls, ice-bladed arm pointed directly at Thor, "I should love to teach Odin what it is to lose a son!"

Jane leans around the corner of the stone wall, peers through the newly-fallen darkness at the on-going fight. Her chilled fingers flex, soaking in the last of the warmth trapped in the rock. Half a dozen dead giants lie scattered across the grounds before her. A smashed fountain spurts a dejected stream of water into the sky. Trampled gardens smear the paving stones. Two dead Einherjar slump against a broken wall. A third lies bloody several feet away from Thor. One, still alive but terribly wounded, drags himself across a muddy lawn. She pulls back, closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall. "I'm so finished with battles," she murmurs into the stone.

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, splitting the world in two. She can hear weapons smashing, the wet thud of a body hitting the ground hard. She doesn't look. Doesn't want to. All this is a mess. A bloody, meaningful mess that terrifies her with its connotations. If the past can be changed, how can they ever return to the future? Does she even want to? Can she afford to rewrite the past few years, on behalf of the rest of the universe? It's all a moral quandary she isn't ready to face.

"Now," Laufey's gravelly voice cries, "You die, Odinson!"

Jane closes her eyes even tighter.

"Are you entirely certain you wish to do that?" interjects a voice so calm that Jane almost misses it.

"Loki," Laufey growls, "I was wondering when the younger son would appear."

"I believe," Loki begins, in a voice that screams rationality, "That we had a deal. A deal you appear to have broken."

There's a long pause, and Jane pushes herself back from the wall. She stares at the stone, processing the information. She fails to register surprise. She leans out around the corner. At some point, between the lightning and thunder, it has begun to pour. The rain falls with a vengeance, and only the flickering lightning brings any coherence to the scene. Thor lies still, Mjolnir far from hand. Blood pours from a gash in his forehead. He looks surprisingly small, collapsed at Laufey's feet. The frost giant towers above the scene, bladed arm raised high, though his head is turned away from Jane's vantage point now. Instead, she can see Loki, the rain pelting down upon him, slicking back his dark hair, and running in rivulets down his armour. There's an eerily familiar wildness in his eyes and the tilt of his head.

"A better option presented itself," Laufey growls, leaning menacingly above Loki now that he has regained his bearings.

Loki looks entirely unaffected. "And what would that be, exactly?" he asks, his fingers dancing across the blade of a knife that flashes in the sudden illumination provided by the lightning above.

"To slaughter Odin's sons," snarls Laufey. "Let him know the pain…"

"Pain?" Loki's tone is laden with incredulity, "What _pain_?"

"The pain," Laufey rumbles, "Of losing your sons."

Loki stares up at the giant with narrowed eyes. "And what would you know of pain, Laufey?" he demands, "Are you suggesting that the Jotun know _love_?"

"I'm suggesting," Laufey says with lips curled in disgust, "That Odin would slaughter babes. I will at least kill you in a fair fight."

The lightning and thunder are abating, and Jane finds herself creeping closer through the darkness. There's a peculiar stillness in Loki's form now, and curiosity will always get the better of her.

"Slaughter babes?" Loki says finally, the picture of nonchalance, "From what I've heard, your kind abandon their children. Leave the scrawny ones to die."

Crouched behind a crumbled wall, Jane can feel the silent fury that pours off Laufey with the rain, "And so are the lies of Odin revealed."

"Not abandoned, then?" Loki's voice is quiet, half-mused, "That is a twist." He sighs, "Doesn't change the ending, though."

"You will face your death, Odinson," Laufey roars, apparently growing impatient.

"Laufeyson," Jane hears Loki say, his voice the definition of calm. She jerks her head up over the wall, stares at the strange tableau. The frost giant has frozen in mid-swing.

"Prove it, Liesmith," he says, his voice gravelly with what could be emotion.

The blade that enters Laufey's belly is composed of solid ice. He falls to his knees as Loki leans in and twists his arm just so. "Believe me now?" he purrs, his voice clearly audible to Jane as she watches son kill father.

"Loki?" Thor's voice is weak, tainted by horror.

The blade pulled from Laufey's body is coated in thick, dark blood that washes away slowly in the rain. Clear water mixes and mingles with the darker substance, dripping slowly to the ground. Jane watches for a moment, as both Loki and Thor watch the droplets fall. Loki's face is a mask, giving away nothing. Thor's is a study in opposites, marred by blood and gore.

The blade melts back into skin and arm as Jane rises slowly from where she has kneeled. The rain begins to taper off as Thor struggles to his feet, disbelief writing itself across his features. He staggers the few feet to Loki, "Brother," he stutters out.

Loki lifts his eyes, disinterest written across his features. "Ah yes," he mutters, "This is… not exactly right. But close enough. Next comes the part where you dangle me from the Bifrost and let me fall."

"Brother," Thor begins again, "I would never…"

"And yet I'm perfect evidence that you would. And have. And will again. For all of eternity. Events repeating across dimensions."

"Loki," Jane says finally, her tone an unfamiliar bark. He turns to watch her close the distance between them, face impassive.

"I miscalculated," he says, his eyes shining with something beyond wild, as he runs a wet and still vaguely bloody hand through his hair. "It isn't the same. But it's familiar. I've seen it before." He pauses, apparently struggling for the right words. "When I fell," he says finally. Tone suggesting that this is a understatement.

Jane swallows hard. Looks from Loki to Thor and back again. She reaches up, tugs on her tangled, soaked curls. "You're telling me we're in a different dimension," she says quietly, waiting for the almost imperceptible nod he gives her. She looks everywhere but at him as something panicked rises up within her. Thor takes a half-step towards her, teetering on tired feet.

"I tried to go back," Loki says finally, filling the silence with words. "I tried, but it wouldn't work. I'm not the one…"

There's only one thing that sticks. Her gaze slams back into his pale face. "You're telling me," she says quietly, even as her voice rises, "You're telling me, that you _left me_ in another dimension?"

His eyes flash with irritation. "I just explained this," he bites, "I _couldn't_ leave you. _You_ are the only way we can get back. Weren't you listening?"

Jane doesn't think before she does it. She only knows that she's had about as much as she can take. The slap is utterly vicious, echoing in the muddy courtyard as the storm clouds abate overhead. A wounded and confused Thor stares at them in perfect silence. "_You left me alone in a different dimension_," Jane hears herself shriek. She knows she can't hurt him, but the shock that opens his eyes wide is gratifying enough. "You," she snarls, leaning up and into his space, jabbing a finger into his chest, "You were going to leave me here. You," she sputters, rage rendering her momentarily speechless. "You took me hostage, used me as a human shield, dragged me into a _different dimension_, and then abandoned me here." She shakes her head, stares up at him in disbelief, "Why the hell do you bother saving me?"

His lips part, then close. He lifts a hand to the cheek she's slapped. The amusement is back in his eyes. "I don't know," he says finally, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Of course," he continues, conversationally enough, "You do realize that this simply proves my earlier point?"

Jane glares daggers at him. She's furious. Beyond furious. "What are you talking about?" she demands. There is something entirely surreal about the fact that he is standing here, perfectly at ease, laughter in his eyes, when as far as Jane can tell, everything has gone entirely to shit.

"Jane," he says in a tone that could be mistaken for kind, "You do realize that you just slapped a _god_, who moments ago killed his father for the _second time._ And this _after_ attempting to take over your planet and murdering your people?" The Thor who stands near them freezes in shock, stares at them with wide, tortured eyes. "And you slapped me, dear Jane. As if I couldn't kill you with a flick of my wrist."

He says it with such levity. As if he isn't discussing her life, but rather the sudden change in the weather. Which is why she doesn't believe it. Not for a second. So she stands toe to toe with him and his malicious smirk and narrows her eyes, "You wouldn't."

"And you're going to trust me on that, Jane?" he drawls, lazily enough.

She blinks, struggling to follow the strange paths his thoughts chase. "Yes?" she whispers, the single word drawn out by her indecision, by the very logical fact that there's nothing she should trust when it comes to him. He's the perfect liar. The god of mischief. And most definitely insane.

"I'll take the small things," he murmurs, leaning in towards her and snatching her wrists in his hands. He doesn't give her a moment to collect herself.

* * *

_A/N: Alright, I want to clarify a few things here:_

1) I'm aware that Thor is coming off a bit flat. The logic behind this is that you're only seeing things from Jane's point of view, and as this chapter should have made clear… she isn't exactly in a place to see things clearly when it comes to him. Or anyone, actually.

2) Yes, I'm exploring a trope or cliché as old as fanfiction itself – the treasured multiple worlds theory. I apologize for its lack of originality, but it offers so much freedom and ground. Particularly for two people who aren't exactly sane or grounded in the first place.

3) Lastly, I want to reiterate that this takes place after imagined events in Thor 2… thus Jane is pretty damaged – both mentally and emotionally. Furthermore, she's not entirely aware of the full extent of that damage. This story is going to explore that. So I apologize if Jane seems a bit off. I skipped the part where she got that way, and that is sort of sloppy writing on my part.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I appreciate your support!


	6. Chapter Five

_**Chapter 5**_

She lies still. Breathes. Breathes like she's breaking the surface after just a moment too long without air. She coughs. There's dust in the air. It tastes like smoke. It's too much. It's not enough.

She opens her eyes. Focuses on the steel girders and beams above her. Somewhere, beyond the ringing, are voices. Unfamiliar voices asking unfamiliar things. She closes her eyes and curses every Norse god she can remember the name of, real or imagined. She leaves Loki for last.

"Jane," says a voice at her ear. She almost recognizes it. "Jane, that was freakin' awesome! I mean, it was terrifying. I kinda thought you were dead there. For a minute. Until you breathed." There is a long pause. The voice continues, enthusiasm ebbing into concern, "Jane? You are… you are breathing, right? This isn't me imagining things, right?" The voice rises, "Jane. Jane! We… we need you! You gotta get up. I promise we won't let April near the potassium chlorate again."

Jane opens her eyes before she can help herself. "Potassium what?" she gasps, "Darcy, potassium what?"

A Darcy who is nothing like her Darcy stares down at her. She blinks slowly, smudged black eyeliner and mascara giving her a faintly haunted look. The chestnut locks her Darcy is so protective of have been cropped into something short and jagged. She looks very pale in the fluorescent light that shines on them both. "The potassium chlorate, Jane," she says, very slowly and very calmly, "You know, for the bombs?"

Jane closes her eyes with great purpose. "This is just a bad dream," she says quietly, "I'll open my eyes and…"

"You can say that all day," Darcy drawls, "It isn't going to change the fact that you recruited her. And, really, she has some… assets we can take advantage of. Distractions and stuff."

The headache behind her eyes is rising into a crescendo. She sits up, Darcy's hand at her elbow. "Remind me," she says quietly, "Why do we need bombs?"

Darcy kneels beside her in torn jeans and a worn-out camouflage jacket, "Blast hit you pretty hard, huh, chief?"

"Darcy," Jane grinds out, lifting a dirty hand to massage her forehead.

"You suffering from amnesia too? Should I be asking you who the President is?"

"Should I know?"

There's a very long silence. "Jane," Darcy peers at her with concerned eyes, "You need to stop playing now. Where's our fearless leader, huh?"

"Fearless leader?" Jane asks, curiosity getting the better of her, though she can't hide the weariness in her tone.

Darcy stands up, juts a hand into Jane's face, and shakes it impatiently. With a sigh, Jane accepts the hand and lets the girl pull her to her feet. A dozen people fill the small warehouse they stand in. All eyes flash to Jane as she looks at them, one by one, searching their faces for any trace of the familiar. She doesn't see it. She does see respect, concern, and a trace of fear. Except in the last, a petite blonde in a low-cut tank top who's positively quivering with terror. April, she supposes.

"Yeah," Darcy says, settling one hand on Jane's shoulder as they survey the small group, "Fearless leader of Project Freedom."

Jane's eyes sweep around the warehouse once more. This time around, she spots the pile of cheap cell phones, the spools of electrical wire, the various implements of minor electrical work, and the still smoking ruins of an obviously exploded package that sits on the workbench. Eyes wide, she swallows hard. "I'm a terrorist," she says, nausea and horror sweeping through her system like a noxious drug. She places one suddenly clammy hand onto Darcy's, pats it hesitantly. "I think I need… just one minute," she squeaks, extricating herself from Darcy's side. "And some fresh air," she nods at the crowd of rough-edged people, "You know, to… clear my head from the… bomb." She backs away from them slowly, "The bomb that we were building. That… exploded in my face. Yes, that…" She turns tail and bolts through the door behind her, struggling with the doorknob for about a lifetime longer than she wants to.

The distance she clears between herself and the warehouse is not nearly enough space for her. But any further and she's afraid of what may come. All she knows is that whatever hells she thinks she's lived through, Loki's managed to plunge her into an entirely new sort.

* * *

"Hey, I don't doubt that SHIELD had good intentions once," a man's gruff voice says, "But it don't justify what they're trying to do in…"

"Adam, we know your position on the Marshall Island situation. Intimately," a woman's voice interrupts.

"Well, actually, Irene," the gruff voice begins, "I was going to condemn the situation in Morocco."

"Morocco?" a second male voice demands, "Morocco is small change compared to what they tried to pull in Kazakhstan."

"Kazakhstan! Who the hell cares about what happened in Kazakhstan? Morocco involved civilians!"

"Shut it," Darcy barks, her voice at once familiar and yet strange, "You're giving me a headache, the lot of you. And I wasn't the one knocked out by a bomb."

Jane nods at the girl, hoping the stiff movement conveys something like gratitude. The truth is that she's scared stiff of the people who surround her. Scared worse by the idea that there's a dimension where she's a terrorist. Scared most by the fact that Loki is nowhere in sight. Which means she's stuck here. With people who expect her to make bombs and tell them where to plant them.

"The lot of you are pathetic creeps, anyway," mutters a waif-like girl wedged into dark corner by the door. "Face it, without Jane, not one of you would be doing anything about it."

Adam lifts angry eyes. His day-old stubble gives his square jaw a particularly dangerous look. "Thought the lieutenant told everyone to shut it," he growls, "Or doesn't that apply to you, _Nova_. If that really is your name."

"Cool it," Darcy snaps, "And stop dragging the military into everything, A. We get it, you know how to carry a big gun." The sarcasm in Darcy's words borders on comforting before the actual meaning behind them sends Jane's brain back into high alert. "It's too bad," Darcy coos, "That you had to come work with a bunch of girls to get up the guts to use one."

Jane shrugs off the shiver that runs down her spine at Darcy's words. Her fingers grip the mug of watery soup in her hands with a death grip. She thought she understood what it was, for nothing to be right. She sees now how limited her horizons were. Seeing this version of her life, this version of Darcy… there are much more terrifying things than broken hearts and facing death.

"You're awful quiet, Jane," the older woman, Irene, murmurs softly. "You sure you don't want me to take a look at your head?"

"I'm fine," Jane says, a little too quickly, if the flicker of hurt in Irene's eyes is any indicator. She licks her lips, looks away and then back. "I mean," she sets the half-full mug down in front of her, "I'm okay. Really. Just… distracted."

"Distracted?" Adam demands, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Get your head in the game, Foster."

"Hey!" Darcy smacks the man's beefy shoulder, "Be nice. Like to see you doing half so well after a bomb goes off in your face!"

Adam grunts. "Bomb wouldn't go off in my face," he grates out, "Wouldn't have the nerve."

"That's more like it," Darcy smirks, "Gotta have the ol' bravado in stock if we're going to do this thing."

"Thing?" Jane prompts, her attention snagging on the stiffness in Darcy's shoulders. She's only seen that particular shift in posture a few times. One involved a taser. A second involved an apparent "wingman" attempt their first night in Washington. Both required more bravery than brains, and that is worrisome at best.

Darcy looks over at her and sighs softly. "I know, Jane," she says quietly, "It's more than a _thing_." Her eyes shine in the industrial lighting of the warehouse, "It's everything."

Jane swallows hard, "We're doing this tomorrow, aren't we?" She has no idea what it is that they are doing or why, but from the darkened glower on Adam's face, the sorrow in Irene's, and the general twitchiness of the younger members of this cabal, she knows its bad. "Maybe we," she begins, "Maybe we should, uh, go over it one more time."

She's weighed down with a hundred pounds of trepidation, but Adam nods and grunts in assent and Darcy has tilted her head thoughtfully. "I'll get everyone together," she agrees, "And the whiteboard."

Jane smiles weakly, hoping desperately that she can at least survive this, let alone tomorrow. She really, really wants to not be stuck in this dimension. Or die in it. That would be a good thing too. "Don't forget the markers," she calls after Darcy. She's really proud of the fact that her voice barely wavers.

* * *

The wonderful thing about being a brilliant scientist pumped full of terror and adrenaline, is that your normally awesome powers of observation get ratcheted up to previously unknown heights. By the time the briefing is complete, Jane has matched all thirteen members of their group to names, past professions, and current roles within tomorrow's plan. Tomorrow's plan to break in to a SHIELD-operated genetics laboratory.

"So, Jill will lead a team with April and Tags," Darcy begins, blue whiteboard marker drawing dashed lines across the sketched layout of the building's third floor, "To free the animals in the B-Block labs..."

Jane sucks in a breath. Bites down hard on her lower lip. Shifts in her seat. Finally blurts out the pressing concern, "Are we really going to free laboratory animals from a genetics lab?"

Jill, April, and the twenty-something guy who had earlier been worried about Kazakhstan give her sudden death glares. "I thought we decided that was a key element of the plan," Tags protests, running a hand through his short blond hair, "We need the distraction."

Jill punches him in the arm, her mouth drawn into a scowl. "We're freeing them because we're Operation Freedom." Her brown eyes stare at the young man with something akin to betrayal. The fact that her other arm is still wrapped up around his softens the blow just a bit.

"I just think we might want to rethink it," Jane stutters, "I mean, these are animals that have been exposed to all sorts of things. We don't exactly want to be the reason for an Ebola outbreak or the next AIDS or something, do we?"

A few members of the group shuffle in discomfort until Irene finally stands and crosses the few feet to Jane's side. "I knew you'd finally see reason," the older woman says, her voice cracking with emotion, "I've been saying all along how dangerous it is. We're there for Jeffery. Jeffery and Twigs and John and Kitty. We can't worry about anything else."

"And Marie," Nova adds from her corner, "I'm not leaving without my sister."

"I could do without Rogue," mutters a middle-aged woman who Jane has matched with the name Leila. "Heard enough about her. Been as dangerous to mutants as SHIELD has if you ask me."

"But no one asked you," Nova snarls through gritted teeth. There's a crackle of electricity dancing between her fingertips, and Jane finally pulls the threads together, though she really can't remember Rogue having a sister in the SHIELD files she read back in her own world.

She swallows hard. Operation Freedom. To free mutants from a SHIELD-operated facility. Why does this somehow have her signature written all over it? She pastes on a brittle smile as she stands up. "We know what we're after," she says firmly, "We need to focus on our goals."

Darcy smiles at her, passes her the marker. "Intel says they're in Block D," she supplies, wrapping her knuckles on the corresponding place on the whiteboard, "It's good to have you back, chief."

Yeah, Jane the terrorist leader. Loki _will_ be proud. If he ever finds her.

* * *

She can't sleep. Maybe it's the fact that she's facing impending doom and dragging thirteen people down with her, or perhaps its that she's sleeping on a lumpy cot with a threadbare blanket and a camping pillow. In either case, laying there is only prolonging her suffering.

Jane slips from the cot with as little noise as possible, inching out from under the thin covers and exploring the concrete floor with bare toes. She finds her sneakers and nudges her way into them. She isn't crossing this warehouse with unprotected feet. Not in the dark, anyway. She creeps from the section that serves as their dorm-style bedroom and out into the workshop, dodging her way around equipment and empty tubs and barrels. Her skin crawls. She's so very not okay with this.

She escapes through the warehouse's side door for the second time that night, breathing in the night air with heavy, gasping breaths. She wishes Loki were here. She wishes it not because she has any particular desire to see his smirking face, but because his presence would imply their hasty exit. An exit to what might be another equally horrific other world. She's quickly coming to the conclusion that she hates her life. And hates Loki. And whatever stupid, cryptic thing he meant when he said that _she_ was the reason for them jumping dimensions. When they get home (to that other dimension she's horribly screwed up), she's going to be done with magic. All magic. Even the creepy dark elf stuff that still feels like its coursing sluggishly through her veins. Assuming that these are, in fact, her veins and not simply the skin and bones of this dimension's Jane. Which is taking her down a road so macabre, she can't even…

"Having second thoughts, Foster?" Adam looms up in front of her pacing feet, a solid wall of muscle and flesh in the darkness.

"Adam!" she gasps in surprise, pulling up short the moment before colliding with his folded arms. His face holds an expression of intense displeasure, like he could think of any number of things he'd rather do than talk to her. From the set of his jaw, she thinks most of those things might involve hurting people. "I," she stutters, "No… not me. Not at all. We need to… rescue…"

"Save it, Foster," he grunts, "You've been the perfect iconoclast right up until tonight. Did you finally realize you're putting people's lives on the line?"

Jane blinks in the darkness, her eyes carving out the hard lines of his face against the heavy black sky above. "You were in the military, right, Adam?" she begins, her beautiful mind working out the variables until the equation became clear, "What branch?"

Adam tilts his head slightly, narrows his eyes under a furrowed brow. "Do you know, Foster," he begins, his jaw working with what might be called nerves in a less solid, less angry person, "That's the first time you've ever asked?"

Jane takes a step back, "Is it?" She can't imagine why she wouldn't chase down this kind of obvious lead.

He gives her a tense nod. "Look, Foster," his eyes are as hard as the overcast night around them, "You're a brave kid, but you're only in this for your boyfriend. If it weren't for him, you'd be off finishing your college classes, living a normal life."

"My boyfriend?"

Adam gives a softer-toned grunt. One that almost suggests compassion. "That Jeffery kid. Irene's son. This whole time the two of you have been thick as thieves. No weak link. And then tonight."

Jane stares hard into the night. "I'm doing this for love?" she asks softly, the words tasting bittersweet on her tongue. She wonders if this Jeffery would put his life on the line for her. If he would sacrifice the universe for her. If she, this other version of her anyway, would sacrifice the universe for him. Thirteen lives on top of her own _is_ a strong proof positive… and yet…

"You haven't answered the question."

Adam stares hard at her for a very long time. "NSA," he mutters finally, the letters tearing themselves from his tongue with reticence.

"And they, uh, just let you go, huh?" Jane hedges, her suspicions slowly confirming themselves, "Early retirement program seeing a lot of success?"

"I realize you could react in a lot of ways here, Foster. And your practically death-proof bombs are a nice little touch. But you and I both know that you're going to get a lot of your people killed tomorrow night."

"Don't you mean our people?" Her words hover in the still night air, accusation and insinuation laid bare.

"Your people, Foster," Adam says, his eyes cold, "My people will be the ones taking them out."

She nods once and looks at the ground. "What do I need to do?" she whispers, "I get the feeling that it's a little late to call this all off."

"Damn straight," Adam snorts, "You've already got several of the bombs in position." There's a long silence. "You're serious about this?"

Jane closes her eyes and begs this version of herself for forgiveness. "What about Jeffery?" she asks suddenly, "And… Twigs and Kitty and…" she struggles to remember the missing name, "Rogue?" she supplies finally.

"Would you believe me if I told you they came willingly?" he says, "Even to us, in one case?"

Jane opens her eyes, pins him with her gaze. "Seriously?" she asks, begging for this small thing. She's no terrorist. She's no fearless leader. She's not the person who leads people into a situation where they all get killed. She'd rather be the betrayer, and that opens whole new cans of worms about who she really is, beneath all the grand self-delusions. But its hard to find fault with a policy that gets the fewest people killed.

"Seriously," he replies, and for the first time, his tone holds something almost warm in it. "They're doing what's best for their country. Helping people. Their genes could save lives."

"And make super soldiers," Jane adds, aware, always and keenly, of SHIELD's double-edged sword.

"And make super soldiers," Adam agrees, "But that's the price you pay."

"What do I need to do?" she repeats, defeat written in the slump of her shoulders.

"Just surrender. When the moment comes, no heroics. Just surrender."

* * *

When the moment comes, and the cold metal of a gun muzzle plants itself at the base of her spine, she hates herself a little. But the hands go up as her back straightens, inching away from the deadly weapon. "Surrender," she breathes, "We surrender."

"Really, Jane?" the voice at her ear says with a sigh, "You're usually always up for a fight."

"Loki," she murmurs, "I'm really, really ready to go."

"But I was all excited to see terrorist Jane," he purrs into his ear, "I wanted to see _you_ be the bad guy."

"If I'm the bad guy," she grates, ignoring the anguish and guilt that's tap-dancing around her head and her heart, "Then you're the good guy for once. How's that feel?"

He's silent, and that's a whole new level of strangeness.

"Lawson," Adam barks as his heavy hands settle onto Jane's shoulders, "Give 'er over here. This is my operation. You can deal with Tasertricks over there."

She's twisted around as Adam flips the cuffs over her wrists. Loki flashes him a dangerous glare, looking surprisingly comfortable in the black bulletproof vest and SWAT team-style garb. He turns slowly, displeasure written across his face as he regards Darcy, vicious and wielding a taser, as she faces off with an officer in the far corner of the room.

"Darcy," Jane cries, her voice suddenly hoarse, "It's over."

She can see the scowl and the anger from where she stands, her wrists wrapped in steel and the warmth of Adam's heavy hands. "You give up too easy, chief," Darcy cries, tears smudging the black makeup around her eyes. She goes down with a thud as the officer she's facing off with finally gets her into a hold. The world blurs as Jane blinks back her tears of shame.

"Keep it together, Foster," Adam grumbles behind her as he pulls her out the door, "You're doing the right thing here."

"Doesn't feel right," she says, feeling small as she watches the other members of her team shuffle along in cuffs or go down in well-practiced holds.

"Most of the time," Adam says, "The right thing never does."

Jane bows her head, fears the judgment in the eyes of the people some other, tougher version of her was able to lead.

"You know," Adam mutters into her ear, "I always did like the name, Jane. Has a good, strong sound to it."

"Too bad I'm not strong," she murmurs back.

"I bet you're stronger than you think, Foster."

Jane just frowns.

It's a small mercy when Loki finally gets a hand back on her on the slow walk from the building to the squad car earmarked for her. "Stupid world," he mutters into her ear, brushing against her as Adam bristles. She has no words for him as reality twists and reshapes itself around her.

* * *

_A/N: Cookies for anyone who gets the reference to Adam Baldwin and his character John Casey from Chuck. Cake for anyone who got the obscure Firefly homage. Also, yes, I dropped "Tasertricks"… I'm sorry. It fit. Disclaimer: I don't own Adam Baldwin or any of the characters he's played. If I did, there'd be more Firefly. _

_Next time: Loki gets increasingly irritated with the worlds he's dealt. Jane meets a particularly slobbery incarnation of Thor. Darcy appears without a taser._


	7. Chapter Six

_**Chapter 6**_

All the physics that Jane knows and all the things she holds to be true about reality suggest that you can't fall when your body is at perfect rest. But the jolt her body takes in the moment before her brain registers that she's lying on a bed suggests a different sort of truth. She struggles to remember the moments between leaving one dimension and falling into the next. She recalls the hand settling down upon her wrist, the stomach-turning, headache-inducing force of being _ripped out_; out of body, out of dimension, out of physical form. And then the sudden slam downwards, back into flesh and blood and conscious thought. There must be moments between there and here. Something that bridges between the perception of one world and the next. She can't quite grasp it. Can one think without a form to think in?

Jane turns her head slightly, reaching out with her hands to grasp the cotton sheets beneath her. There are questions surfacing in the back of her mind. Questions of what has happened to _her _body. Of what happens to the Janes who's bodies she invades. Of what happens to them when she leaves. There is a comforter above her, its weight at once reassuring and stifling. She fights the urge to kick it off, to gasp for breath, to scream. She turns off the part of her brain that is asking questions she can't quite handle. She isn't ready for some of those answers, and if the last two worlds have been anything to go by, there are far greater concerns that likely need to be dealt with.

She opens her eyes a crack, ignoring the throbbing in her head. It takes her a moment to focus in the darkness before she registers the very normal bedroom around her. A chest of drawers faces the bed, the top drawer half open and a collection of shadowed picture frames sitting on top of it. Beside it an open closet door fails to contain the jumble of shoes and clothes that seem to have spilled out from it. The nearest wall boasts a bookcase filled with haphazard stacks of books and the more obscure shapes of worn stuffed toys or knickknacks. It's the room of a woman who hasn't entirely finished growing up. It feels safe. The night is warm and still. Jane closes her eyes, feels exhaustion wash over her. She'll take this opportunity to sleep. The rest of the world can wait until morning.

* * *

"Jaannne," the sing-song voice calls, stretching her monosyllabic name into a pageant of poorly-sung notes, "It's time for sleepy little Janes to get up and face the world."

Jane shifts, indulging in the squish of the comforter as she balls it up against her side. "Five more minutes," she mumbles, sneaking a peek at the Darcy who stands in her doorway, framed by the pale blue paint of the bedroom walls and the crisp white door trim.

"Uh huh," she huffs, pushing the dark waves of her hair over one shoulder before folding her arms. "You're the one who made such a fuss about _me_ getting up early today so we could go find that rat-bastard cat of yours. You telling me now that I can go back to bed?"

Jane lifts her head, feeling her curls tumble into an exquisite case of bed head, "My cat?"

Darcy rolls her eyes, "Yes, _your_ cat. Do you really think I'd accept any responsibility for that monster?"

Jane stifles a yawn as she struggles to kick-start her brain, "Don't cats normally come home on their own?"

Darcy unfolds her arms, places them more pointedly on her hips, "Now why does that sound exactly like what _I_ said last night, when you were freaking out?" She tilts her head and waggles a finger in Jane's direction, "You're the one who said we need posters and a search party, 'cause god forbid someone steals him and locks him in their house."

There is an element of familiar logic to what Darcy says. Jane wrestles her way free of the comforter as she sits up, accepting that this world's Jane has at least similar reasoning to her own. Her eyes pause momentarily on her pale green pajama pants, covered with kittens tangled in yarn as they are. She smothers a smile as she summarizes, "So I need to get up so I can find my 'rat-bastard' cat." Relief courses through her veins at the simplicity of this world. Her feet hit the hardwood floor of the bedroom as she begins to stand, headed toward the mysteriously-exploding closet.

"Yep," Darcy replies, popping the "p" on the word before spinning on her heel to wander back out into the hallway. "Oh, and don't forget that Maggie is coming too," she calls behind her, "With Thor. So, you know, prepare yourself."

Jane stills. She falls back and sits heavily on the edge of her bed. "Thor?" she calls out, despite herself.

"Yeah," Darcy replies, sticking her head back into Jane's room, "You know? Your sister's dog?"

"Right," Jane hears herself say, "My sister. Of course." She feels like she's underwater as her eyes flash over to the dresser with its collection of picture frames. She drags herself to her feet and stumbles towards the smiling, laughing faces that beckon. Her fingertips dance lightly across the faces, older and happier than the ones that linger in her memory. Her parents. Her parents, who apparently lived in this world. _Live_ in this world. Along with a sister. Her sister. Jane swallows hard. The world may have just fallen out from under her.

* * *

She tries to keep a lid on her emotions as she sits at the cheap dining set in the apartment this world's Jane and Darcy apparently share. She brings spoonful after spoonful of slightly-soggy cereal to her mouth, chewing and swallowing mechanically. Her sister is supposed to arrive any moment. Jane shifts in her seat, denim rasping. Darcy wanders into the room, dressed in jeans and a zip-up hoodie herself. "You forgot these on the printer," Darcy offers, tossing a stack of paper onto the table beside Jane, "Real cunning picture of the runt."

Jane glances at the poster. Brings spoon to mouth. Looks back at the poster and sputters. There's familiar eyes staring back at her, framed in a delicately feline face. The cat's black fur shines with a truly glorious depth of darkness, even in a photograph. "Loki," Jane exclaims, the letters spelling the cat's name registering in the same moment she finds the name already on her lips.

Darcy makes a rather noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, her attention already divided between Jane and the buzzing of the intercom. She hits a button and holds a monosyllabic conversation with the person at its other end. Jane looks between her and the poster, which suddenly seems insignificant in comparison to meeting one's sister-who-might-have-been. Jane's eyes are wide as her brain threatens to stall out as the world verges on incomprehensible. There's too much to process. Too much to feel. She struggles to her feet, her breathing shaky and ragged. She watches Darcy twist the door handle open, walking away from the door to check her ponytail in the hall mirror.

Jane's breath is coming in tiny gasps. She's terrified. Her whole life… her whole life since she was seven years old… has been spent wondering about what might have been. Years and years of wasted energy and imagination spent on trying to breath life back into the memories of her parents. She finally gave up when she was in her undergrad, when she realized that the only images of her parents that still remained were the ones she'd memorized from their photographs. She'd thrown herself completely into the stars then. Better to chase after what can be found than after what has been lost. Except when what was lost comes bounding back into life, three dimensions over.

"Thor!" a young woman cries sharply, her voice both strange and familiar. The door flies open, revealing empty hallway. Jane's gaze darts to the empty vista, confusion vying with loss. And then the yellow streak several feet closer to the floor veers towards her. With widening eyes, Jane takes a stumbling step back just in time for the blonde behemoth to leap up, its paws settling heavily onto her shoulders. "Thor!" the voice cries again, exasperation evident, "Get down. Now!"

The dog goes down, but only because gravity demands it of Jane's backwards-stepping feet. She goes down hard, happy dog on top, too busy licking her face to even notice the change in angle. "What the –" Jane sputters, her hands flailing at the mound of blonde fur that's parked itself on top of her. A well-placed lick lingers close to her mouth. "That's it," she spits, sitting up and throwing the dog off of her, "Get off!" She wipes a sleeve across her face, scrubbing viciously at the dog slobber that's been left behind, "Disgusting," she mutters as she cringes. There's always been a reason the lab had no dog, even despite Darcy's pleas for a puppy.

"Jane!" the woman falls to her knees at her side, "I'm so, soo, sorry… you know Thor loves you like crazy. I can't… he was being soooo good in the car. I promise. I had no idea…"

Jane pauses in her wiping. Stares at the woman beside her. She's young, nineteen or twenty at most, and the way her rich brown hair hangs in a sleek, straight curtain has Jane longing for a flat iron to tame her own tousled hair. Hazel eyes gaze into her own seriously. Jane's breath catches in her throat, "You look," she hears herself say, her voice unnaturally small, "So much like mom."

The woman blinks, looking confused for only a moment before her full lips spread into a smile, "He really took you down hard, huh?" She stands, catches Jane's hands in her own, and pulls her to her feet. They have the same hands. Small with slightly stubby fingers, and a bit of dry skin at the wrists. "Which reminds me," she adds, "Mom told me to bring you home with me. For dinner. You don't have to stay long, but you know Mom, she misses her oldest baby."

"I…" Jane stutters, longing swamping her entire being. To see her mother. See her alive, and living, and happy, and making supper. Her heart feels a little like it might burst.

"I know," Maggie says, freeing Jane's hands and making a series of flourishes with her own, "You're a busy person, with an extra-heavy course load, and you're working on your Master's, and it just goes on and on and on." Jane blinks, stares around the room and down at herself, struggling to align years and dates and just how old is she in this world? "You're a workaholic, just like Dad. Who wants to see his little rocket scientist too, by the way." And then Jane is off on another tangent, struggling to remember her father.

"So?" Maggie prompts, "Dinner at Mom and Dad's? You aren't allowed to say no."

"Of course," Jane says, perhaps a little too quickly. "I've missed them a lot. I don't know how I could take them for granted –"

Maggie's smile goes sheepish. "Jane," she interjects, "It's fine. Really. We saw you last weekend. I'm just teasing. No one expects you to come out to New Jersey in the middle of the week."

Thor-the-dog butts his head against Jane's thigh, and whines as her stares up at her. She looks down at the shaggy beast, its expression swollen in innocence and adoration. "I guess we better get going," Jane says finally, glancing back up at her sister. The sister she never had, but could have. Should have. Has in this life. She squashes the urge to hug her.

"Yeah," Darcy drawls, emerging from the hallway, "Loki really won't find himself. He's probably the dumbest cat that ever lived."

Maggie chokes back a snort. "I think you're wrong," she says, laughter dancing in her eyes, "I think he's a brilliant cat who just hasn't figured out that he's a cat."

"He thinks he can take on a golden retriever," Darcy snarks back, her hand reaching down and ruffling Thor's ears lovingly, "That's a dumb cat."

Jane runs a hand through her tangled hair, "Some things just don't change, do they?" she whispers. Thor-the-dog wags his tail.

* * *

It takes Jane all of fifteen minutes to understand that she's in New York City. A perfectly intact, untouched New York City that boasts no heroes or aliens or wormholes or any memory of any such things. The newspaper headlines describe terrorist bombings in distant countries, hackers in China, rising stock prices for Internet companies. There's nothing wildly exciting, no masked or hooded or helmeted heroes in their photographs. Jane pauses for a moment. Wonders where this world will go. If Asgard even exists in this universe, if Loki is a cat and Thor just a dog.

"Jane," Maggie says quietly, her free hand weaving around Jane's arm, "Are you okay? You seem really quiet."

Jane nods absently, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… thinking."

Maggie smiles, "Hey, I get it. Not every Master's student gets their research incorporated into NASA spaceships before they even finish said Master's." Jane's gaze snaps to Maggie's face as she continues blithely on, "I told you Dad was proud, right?"

"I'm really a rocket scientist, huh?" Jane asks, trying to keep her tone light as she struggles desperately to connect the dots.

"The best, Jane. A prodigy," Maggie crows, "I brag about my brilliant big sis all day."

Jane gives her a weak smile and wonders how exactly she's going to fake that knowledge come Monday. And then she looks down, and the question she's asked all her life finds its answer, and her smile twists into something sad and just a bit bitter. _Who would I be, if I wasn't an orphan? _She sighs, lets the thought dribble through her, _I'd be better_.

The shoulder she bumps into is large and muscled, and attached to a guy in jeans and a tight t-shirt, who's eyes are directed somewhere above them. "Hey, man," he says to the guy standing beside him, "I'm sure that cat belongs to someone. It's got a collar on."

The guy beside him runs a hand through his spiky, brown hair. "Bro," he says, "You want to rescue the thing, go for it. But don't look at me."

Jane turns her gaze upwards, catches sight of the creature in question. The cat lounges in a patch of sunlight that scrapes past the wall of the building on the other side of the alley way. The ledge it lies on is several stories up, a few feet from the edge of the building's fire escape.

"It could be that that's its owner's apartment," the guy at Jane's side muses, "Could be that its fine."

Jane looks to Spiky Hair Guy, who shakes his head, "Nah, man, that's Ms. Mendoza's place. You know she's been out of town for weeks."

"Jane," Maggie nudges her, "Isn't that Loki?"

Spiky Hair Guy looks at them, words finally catching his attention. "Seriously?" he exclaims, "That's _your_ cat?"

Muscles turns to look down at Jane. "You named your cat Loki?" he grins, "That's some awesome naming skills."

Jane shuffles awkwardly, "Yeah –"

"You have no idea," Darcy interjects, one hand settling on Muscles' bicep, "Ask Maggie the dog's name."

Spiky Hair looks at the dog, then up at Maggie's slightly embarrassed smile. "Go on," he says, "It's something awesome too, isn't it?"

Maggie pushes some of her glossy hair back behind her ear, tilts her head, "His name is Thor." She smiles coyly, winking at Darcy, who's fingers have claimed Muscle's arm as territory. Maggie slips free of Jane, her hazel eyes lit up with teenaged pleasure at being the center of attention. Jane rolls her eyes.

"So," Darcy begins, "It all begins with this ridiculously adorable kitten. I mean, ridiculously adorable. He stared up at me with the biggest, cutest eyes and practically begged me to take him home." Spiky Hair looks from Darcy up to the ledge, and gives her a doubtful look. Darcy shakes her head, "Jane chose the other one."

The two guys look at Jane for a moment, puzzled expressions on their faces, as if waiting for her to justify her decision. Jane grimaces, "Darcy tells it so much better." Their attention returns to Darcy and Maggie. Thor sits at Maggie's feet, tail rhythmically thumping upon the ground. Jane turns and looks up at the black cat sitting on the ledge above them. She sighs.

"According to Jane," Darcy continues, her voice dropping in volume as Jane heads towards the alleyway, "Cats are supposed to be aloof and independent and wily, and that's what she wants. She wants a cat she can name after a trickster god."

Jane stares up at the rusting metal of the fire escape. She bites on her lower lip, throws a glance back at the two, taller men who seem enchanted with Darcy's storytelling abilities. Or at least her dark eyes and pouty lips.

"Why a trickster god?" Muscles' prompts, earnest blue eyes peering down at Darcy in amused interest.

"Because," Darcy replies, her voice taking on an almost mocking edge, "According to Jane, they're the most interesting."

Jane grits her teeth, stares back up at the lowest rung of the escape ladder, and jumps. The metal feels faintly grimy on her hands, and she's dimly aware that she's dangling from the escape like a crazy person. She tightens her jaw and stretches one hand up to the next rung. This is vaguely ridiculous, but she's determined now. She isn't going to go running to good-looking, tall, interested men for help. She knows how that story ends.

"The worst part," Darcy's words are clear as she stresses the syllables, "Is that the stupid cat lives up to his name! Every day its something. Shredded couch cover, mangled pillow, destroyed blinds. He's incapable of good behaviour."

"Sounds familiar," Jane grunts, as she pulls herself up onto the fire escape landing. She pauses for a moment, gasping for breath.

"And those eyes," Darcy pauses dramatically, "Following you. Searching your soul."

Jane snorts as she gets to her feet. The rusting metal protests beneath her sneakers, but she heads up the stairs that lead to the next level. Darcy's voice getting increasingly distant, "Thor?" she says, "Maggie named him ironically after Jane's cat. Figured that they're about as opposite as you can get…"

Jane runs a hand through her hair, struggling to keep it pushed back as the wind tumbles it around. Three stories up, the gentle breeze is slightly brisker. She leans on the metal railing that runs around the fire escape landing, levels her gaze at the cat. She narrows her eyes. There's a thin green collar around its neck. Tags hang from it, glinting in the sunlight. The cat stretches lazily, then settles back down onto the ledge. The tags clearly read "Loki."

Jane glares at the cat. It stares unblinkingly back at her. "Loki," she says through gritted teeth, "So help me god, get over here. Right. Now." The cat yawns. Jane takes a deep breath, "Okay, so I'm probably going to feel like a real idiot in a minute, but I'm going to run with this crazy idea that that is actually you, okay, Loki?" The cat twitches its tail, disinterested eyes focused somewhere past Jane. "Listen," Jane begins, "If that's really you, I can't imagine that you're thrilled with being a cat. 'Cause, ya know, you're a god, right?" The cat's gaze slowly moves to her. Jane swallows down hard on the rising frustration she feels. She steps up onto the lower bar of the rail, leans over slightly. "Loki," she snaps, "You aren't a cat. Get over here."

The cat tilts its head slightly to the right, and fixes its green eyes upon Jane with something that approaches disdain. Internally, Jane crows. "C'mon," she says, "I know that look. I _know_ its you." She leans a little further, arms outstretched, "Come here and we'll go have dinner with my family and then we can go find some nice dimension where you don't have to be a cat." The cat's gaze hardens as its whiskers twitch. It lifts itself stiffly from the ledge, stretches backward, and then settles back down, further beyond Jane's reach than before.

A noise of irritation scrapes through Jane's throat. "We aren't leaving right away!" she says, "We can't. I have dinner with my family. My _family_, Loki." The cat stares at her. "It means something to me," she grinds, feeling foolish and angry. She pushes herself up onto the railing, so she's balanced on the inch-wide band of rusting iron. "I know family means nothing to you," she continues, "But its been… Its been a really long time…" she pauses. There's a hot, dry feeling behind her eyes and a lump in her throat. She's desperate to see her mother and father again. Wants one dinner. One night of memories of a life that could have been hers. It doesn't seem like it should be so much to ask for. Not when she's been through several incarnations of hell to get here.

The wind rattles past her, throws her curls into her face. With a frustrated sound, Jane wrenches her free hand back to pull her hair out from her face. The cat's eyes narrow. The metal behind her groans. Her sneaker slips on the rusty grime. For a moment, she's dangerously off-balance. There's nothing to catch her. Then there's a bundle of fur clawing through her t-shirt, and she knows, _she_ _knows_. He's already cast the spell.

The last thing she processes is Maggie's shrill scream, the sound fading and warping as she's plucked out of the body that hears it.

* * *

_Next Time: A brief primer on inter-dimensional travel, or, Jane stops and thinks about stuff. _


	8. Chapter Seven

_A/N: This chapter really did not want to be written, so I apologize deeply for how long its taken to update. I'm also still not entirely thrilled with how it has turned out, but there are really only so many times you can rewrite something before you want to be done with it. Hopefully it will answer some questions, and not beg too many new ones. Also, I want to preface this chapter with the warning that A) Jane is somewhat retconned for this story. She has to be for it to work. B) I'm entirely aware that this story can be really jarring and frustrating. That is, however, how it is supposed to be. Its just the nature of this version of events. For those readers who aren't impressed by the style of this story, I'm sorry… I know I set the bar really high for myself when I wrote "Between Worlds" – if its any consolation, this probably won't be my last foray into Lokane. So if you don't like this one, hopefully some future project will restore your faith._

* * *

_**Chapter 7**_

She's lying on her back on a tile floor. White tiles, faintly scuffed. There's a hint of dust. There's always dust in the desert. The floor is cool, but not cold. The sun has been shining in on it all day through the picture windows. She knows this all without opening her eyes. She knows her lab. Knows the smell and the taste of the air. Puente Antiguo is the place that resonated with her. She hated it and she loved it. The lonely expanse of sand in sun and sand in moon. The endless chase of stars after the retreating sun. Time that passed without anything changing. Coffee fueling forty-eight hour stretches of frenetic calculus and programming and rewiring. Sleep finally chasing her down like a wolf at her heels. After Donald. Before Darcy. Other people force her to keep a schedule that borders on normal. She's never forgotten her default though. She's not normal. She's obsessive and impulsive and stubborn. And alone.

Alone is key. Because she can almost fool herself when she isn't. She can almost convince herself that she's alright. That all the things that worry her about herself are only a phase she went through, or a broken heart. But she's been alone for most of her life. There are months on end where she's gone without even a phone call from Eric. Months on end where she's communicated with supervisors and graduate program coordinators entirely by email. There are stretches of time she isn't even sure she can fully account for. They've been lost in the production of papers never published, of lab equipment pieced together from technological junk, of theories so obscure she isn't even sure that she's fully understood them herself.

Alone because she's had no family to worry about her. There's been no one to consistently be accountable to. There were foster families and boarding schools, and summers with Eric, of course. But she thinks, often enough, that they only served to make her into an actress. A good actress. Good enough to lose herself in her own role: the plucky, young physicist who stubbornly struggles on with a smile on her face. She forgets that underneath she isn't smiling. Underneath the forced smiles and laughter and the stubborn determination to carry on, there's a broken thing; an orphaned thing. And maybe that little girl who lost her parents never really went away.

The reality of what she's lost washes over her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless and cold on the floor. Jane rolls onto her side, curls inward upon herself, and cries. She cries for the parents she lost, for the parents she could have known, for the Jane whose life she just destroyed. She cries for all the lonely nights, for the what ifs and what might have beens. She cries for all the selfish pain that's bottled up in the knot of tension beneath her scalp. She cries until there's no air left in her lungs, no moisture in her eyes. She cries until she's left hollow and empty and all that remains is the most clear, analytical part of her, which doesn't really understand why she falls apart.

It isn't the first time she's cried herself into this strange sort of calm. Just outside of her own emotions, she can peer into herself and point out all the flaws in the logic. Like a buggy piece of software, she combs through the coding and sets things right. Maybe its her own strange sort of survival instinct kicking in, but in this numb place, she can remind herself that she needs to keep things in perspective. She hasn't lost anything that was really hers. Certainly nothing that she hasn't lost before. And she can't carry all the pain and hurt and guilt of lives and worlds beyond her own. Not if she intends to survive. Not if she has to do this again and again.

So she takes a deep breath and uncurls on the floor. She stares up at the floor tiles. One hundred holes in each. Same here as in her own world. She takes another deep breath and reminds herself that these worlds she stumbles into aren't her world. These lives are not her life. They hold no secrets or truths about the world she's from, or the life she's lived, or the person she is. Each is its own instance, self-contained and unconnected to the world she belongs to. Even this world, for all its similarities, is not hers. This is not her lab. Not her Puente Antiguo. Not her research notes scattered across the desk and overflowing from the wastebasket by the door. Not her computers and recorders and analytic sensors humming monotonously in the background. Not her 2013.

She does finally pry herself up off the floor. She pokes through the notes scattered across the table, and the desk, and the countertops. With a frown on her face, she runs her hands over the parts and pieces of electronic equipment that are scattered around the living space. She wanders out into the main lab, gazing down at printouts and screens of shuffling data. Things are a mess. A perfectly, neurotically well-maintained mess, but a mess nonetheless. There's more science than living happening in this place.

She moves to the nearest computer, fingertips ghosting across the keyboard as it slowly comes back to life. She stares at the date, November 24th, 2013. Whatever may be wrong about this dimension, it is, at least, following the same time as the one she belongs to. The question then, is why she's alone in her desert lab with things looking like she's bordering on crazy, when she's supposed to be in Washington, working for SHIELD? Which is the moment she stops and shakes her head and reminds herself for the fifth time today, that this isn't her world. Things would be different here. It's a thought that sends her fingers scrambling over the keyboard.

The thought that's chasing her forces her to take her time. She checks. She really does. She scans over her lab notes, uploads the data, opens the computer files. She sifts through the numbers, triple-checks the dates and times and weather reports. She automates her search functions, mining the Internet for any references to aliens or other worlds or Norse gods come to life. There are none. This is a world without Thor. A world where strange storm activity in the desert never produced a man falling from the sky. A world without alien armies and wormholes and would-be conquerors of earth.

A world where the Foster Theory is just a theory. A crackpot, fringe theory that Doctor Jane Foster refuses to let go of. Even against the advice of those who claim to love her. The emails are there. Eric's name in black Times New Roman on a computer screen. The funding is gone. This Jane is living entirely on borrowed time. Borrowed against her sanity, her credibility, and probably her health, if the dark purple smears beneath her eyes are any indication. This is Jane alone. Obsessed and stubborn and unwilling to compromise. This is Jane as she could have been, and that thought is perhaps the scariest.

* * *

In worlds without Darcy, Jane Foster wakes up and has to make her coffee alone. In this world, on this morning, she does this with a focused concentration that suggests that she is trying very hard not to think about any of the hundred million things that have kept her awake for half the night. She sets the coffee machine and takes the time to relish the bitter-earth aroma of the grounds as she scoops them in. She pauses to look out the windows, to stare hard into the pink-streaked sunrise. The desert is stained with colour. It's the most beautiful time of day. And she's seen it most often from the other side of wakefulness. Its entirely possible that the real reason she took up SHIELD's offer to move her to Washington had everything to do with getting away from the bad habits of this place. Everything to do with getting away from being alone. Eric and Darcy never could have stayed forever.

She swallows hard and moves on. There are thoughts that have become tangled and snarled in her mind and she's never been able to figure out a problem without seeing it. She's confused about things like time and place and who they are. She wants… she needs to get it straight before she starts to forget that these worlds aren't supposed to tell her anything about herself. Some of this is just too close to home. With a shake of her head, she roots through a helpful-looking closet and digs out a whiteboard and a set of markers. She pulls the cap off the black one with her teeth and sets herself to work.

The outline of a table takes form. Details flow from brain to hand to board. She writes the places, the times, the people she's been. She chews on the marker caps. Adds a new row to her table. Pens his spiteful name in. _Himself_, she writes under Asgard, pausing as she forces herself back through the memory. _Different history?_ she writes after a moment, recalling his distant gaze, his cryptic words. _Not abandoned_ _(?)_, she writes finally. She knows what he is. What the words suggest. Orphan of a different kind. Adopted. Jane narrows her eyes. Refuses to empathize. Monsters are different from what she is. And there are better ways to react than turning to homicide.

This is good. This seeing of what she's thinking. Part of what she's thinking. The part she's willing to deal with. There are other things she won't deal with. Not right now. She needs something to focus on, and she needs desperately to bring some sort of order to this train wreck. Loki might be comfortable with chaos, but she is not. She takes a deep breath and contemplates the board.

The pen moves on. She's only hazy on his role in her terrorist plot. _SWAT team_, she scrawls, _maybe. _There's always the chance that he was himself. He's a master of illusion and lies. He could infiltrate a normal unit. Jane spits out the chewed marker cap, gaze locked on the whiteboard. _Lawson_, she writes finally, Adam's snarl still an echo in her ears. She takes a deep breath, evaluates, gazes out the window at swirling eddies of dust whipped into sudden, momentary life. _Human (?)_, she writes. She looks at the word. Moves to the next cell in her marker-scrawled table. _Cat_, she writes.

She pauses, leans back, and stares at the board for a long moment. "Loki," she says finally, her voice a defeated sigh, "How the hell are you still doing magic?" She runs a hand through her hair, pulling it slightly at the roots. She doesn't understand magic. She has no context to put it in. She doesn't know whether it's an idea or a substance or an energy or something beyond human experience altogether. She knows she's seen him use it without saying a word. But that doesn't mean there might not be spells. Its just one more question she can try to ask. Not that she expects any sort of clear answer. She looks back out the window at the distant horizon. A sky of fathomless blue melts into a hazy, wavering line of heat over the distant dunes. There isn't a single living thing in sight.

Perhaps it's the emptiness of the desert that does it. That endless horizon line and clear, empty sky. She thinks of the numbers, of the data spooling out in the next room. She thinks about the worlds without Asgard. She thinks about the worlds where Loki is not a god. Worlds where he's human. Worlds where he's a cat. The moment stretches into a silent eternity. Jane's jaw tightens. She blinks. Truth is a hard thing, but she's rarely shied away from it. Her mathematical mind is telling her that there are worlds without Loki. Worlds without Jane Foster. There must be. And there's no reason why they couldn't stumble into those worlds.

Jane looks out at the empty desert. She thinks about the empty data. She tells herself she isn't scared. After all, being alone can't actually be worse than being with Loki.

Jane's frown deepens.

* * *

_In the dream, she's not Jane Foster. She doesn't think like Jane Foster. She doesn't feel like Jane Foster. She isn't even shaped like Jane Foster. In the dream, she forgets who she is, because she doesn't need to be anyone. _

_In the dream, the world isn't shaped like it should be. It's more fragile, more changeable, less solid. Which makes perfect sense to the thing that has been Jane Foster. After all, an entity can be here and there simultaneously. It can be up and it can be down. It can be a particle and a wave. It only solidifies and becomes a thing when you look at it. And marvelously, she has no eyes to see with. She stretches out the inky blackness of her reach and taps on what might be a string. It vibrates, hums, sings for her. There is the taste of a picture. The colour of an emotion. It resonates with the weight of the feeling she carries inside of her. It isn't what she's looking for, but the weight of the feeling needs to exist somewhere. It needs to interact with things like matter and energy, on planes of existence so much more complex than this one. So she does what she must and slithers up and into the string. She falls into the universe it touches. _

_And then she waits. _

* * *

Jane wakes from the dream with a scream trapped in her throat. Her arms and legs kick out against the blankets, sending them flying off the bed and onto the floor. Her breath comes in shaking gasps, as if her lungs are starved for air. As if she's relearning how to breath. The strange, dark, oily presence of Malekith's magic is all around her, a sensation running down the length of her spine and suffusing her skin. It isn't the first time she's been reminded that she's still carrying some part of that with her, but it is the worst. She stumbles out of the bed, trying to push herself away from the dream and the feeling that is almost embedded in her skin. She scrambles over to a window, presses her forehead against the cool glass, and swallows a breath that sounds more like a sob.

She forces her eyes wide, drinking in the pale blue-grey of the predawn light. Cacti stretch spiked arms up towards an empty sky. The scratching, rasping cries of insects reach her ears. The glass is cold and smooth on her fevered skin. She can feel it all, hear it all, see it all, and it all still feels somehow less real than the dream, with its awareness of things that couldn't been seen. She suddenly, acutely, does not want to be alone.

There's nowhere to go, however, in a small desert town just before dawn. The whole world is a quiet, still place that lacks human involvement. She slinks from the bedroom, curls up on the lab's old, battered couch, and trembles the entire time. A blanket works its way down from the back of the couch to her shoulders, where she grips at it with a strange mixture of terror and need. The sun cannot rise quickly enough, and when it does, she feels painfully disappointed. Clouded days are rare in the desert, but this would just happen to be one of them.

The entire time she waits for the minutes and hours to pass by, she's haunted by the emptiness of the lab. She misses Darcy's presence. She even, for a moment, misses Donald Blake, and his warm eyes that would seek her out, drawing her away from her research. She misses Eric. He is, after all, the closest thing to family that she has.

The black oil sensation begins to fade, but Jane feels no less lost. She's torn somewhere between the person she could have been, the person she was, and the person she's become. The idea that these worlds have nothing to tell her about herself is feeling more and more like a lie. In the stillness of the morning, suffering from an acute lack of sleep and the emotional exhaustion she's been left with after the horror of that nightmare, she's got no walls left to hide behind. She can feel the familiarity of the lab wrap itself around her, and she'd be lying if she said it wasn't comfortable. The hum of her machines, the crinkle of research papers scrunched between the couch cushions, the clarity she knows she can find in the heart of a good math problem, they are her comforts. They ground her in the knowledge of who she is. And she'd rather that then the haunted presence of dark magic in the back of her head.

Still, admitting that this Jane is still her is problematic. Because if this Jane is her, then so is the Jane who became a successful engineer because her parents didn't die. If this Jane is her, then so is the Jane who became a terrorist. If all these variations of Jane are just herself put under different pressures, then she has a lot she needs to process about herself. Like the fact that maybe she doesn't know herself as well as she thought. It means coming to terms with the fact that she has, maybe, lost her parents all over again. Still, its better than dealing with the idea that Malekith's magic is still lurking under her skin.

Of course, she thinks, her eyes gazing out at the flat grey light beyond her windows, this might be the end of it. If her math is right (and if having Thor fall from the sky taught her anything, its that her math is right), then the cold, hard truth of yesterday's realization is entirely accurate. There are worlds where one or both of them don't exist. This could easily be one of them. She could spend forever waiting here and still never see Loki again.

She thinks she should find that idea more appealing. It's true that without him she's stuck here, trapped in a world that isn't her own. But its also a world without Asgardian princes and dark elves and travel across dimensions. It's a world that does have Eric. A very concerned Eric, who would apparently love to help her edge back into mainstream science. She could pretend that everything from her world was merely a dream; a side effect of working alone in the desert too long. She could choose to put aside her theories. She could go back into academia. She could learn to ignore the oily, slippery sensation of magic in the back of her head. Surely, in time, even that would fade away.

But even as she thinks about ignoring it, her dream washes back over her, leaving her shuddering with dread. There's only one person she can think of who might have answers for what is happening. One person, who might not even exist here. She closes her eyes, her jaw tight and lips pulled thin. Without Loki, she's stuck here, alone and without answers. She doesn't want to need him. Doesn't want to see him. At the same time, there's no one she wants to see more.

When she finally opens her eyes again, there's still only the empty desert to greet her. Jane swallows hard against the fear and the loneliness in her throat. She wishes she could go back in time. But really go back, into her own lifetime. She'd change so many things. Make different choices. Maybe she would have thrown away less in her pursuit of theories. She could have married Donald, if she'd been willing to give up this chase. Her life would have been so different, so much safer, if she'd been willing to compromise back then. She hopes there isn't supposed to be any sort of lesson in this.

In time, she drags herself up off the couch and slides into a worn pair of jeans. The sweater she wears is frayed at the sleeves, and is the same sort of washed out grey as the sky above her. She doesn't really think about it though. It all matches how she feels. Worn out, exhausted. She imagines that it must show on her face, because even Sam, the old man who practically lives for the pie Isabela sets down in front of him does a double take when she walks in.

"Oh, honey," Isabela murmurs, the fine lines in her fifty-something year old face deepening as she looks at Jane. "I know you think you're doing important work in that lab of yours," the older woman begins, "But you still gotta take care of yourself, kid." She shakes her head as she crosses the diner to Jane. One hand reaches out and snags Jane's elbow, pulling her closer. "Sweetie," she frets, "When was the last time you ate?"

Jane shifts awkwardly on her feet, "There was a pop tart, yesterday," she admits, embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

Isabela clucks her tongue, "No, Jane," she says firmly, "That ain't good enough."

Jane swallows hard, her mouth feeling dry in the wake of this woman's concern. "I don't have a lot of money," she admits quietly, thinking dully of the handful of coins and rumpled dollar bill in her pocket. Part of her thinks longingly of SHIELD's expense account. Her stomach rumbles in agreement.

Isabela sighs quietly, pats the back of Jane's hand, and guides her to the diner counter. She pushes her shoulder gently, pressing her onto a seat. "Don't you worry about that, honey," she says in a voice both firm and warm, "No one goes hungry in Puente Antiguo. Not as long as Isabela's stands."

For a moment, Jane wants to cry. Because she's from the world where Isabela's _doesn't _still stand. After the Destroyer, there just hadn't been enough money for her to repair everything, so she had closed. Had swallowed her pride and pasted on a thin-lipped smile as she went to live with her daughter and her baby grandson in Alamogordo. Just one more thing that was Loki's fault. Just one more thing she should hate him for. One more thing to hate herself for, for wanting him to exist anyway. Even if its only so she can get answers to her questions. Maybe especially because of that.

"Now, honey," Isabela says quietly, apparently reading the emotions on Jane's face as guilt over not being able to pay, rather than guilt over things far greater, "I'll go get you some of my homemade chicken soup, and then I'm going to watch you eat it. Every bite. And then I'm going to get you some apple pie. And I'm going to do the same thing again." The older woman is so earnest that Jane can actually feel the wetness in her eyes. She wonders if this is what her mother would be like, seeing her daughter in worn-out clothes, thin and exhausted and broke as hell.

She eats the food Isabela puts in front of her. Every bite observed closely by Isabela, who keeps topping up her orange juice and her coffee and has added at least one plate of toast to her list of things Jane must eat. "And don't you dare worry about paying for anything," Isabela scolds, pointed finger in Jane's face. "I'm just happy to see you outside that lab of yours. You spend too much time up there. Ain't healthy for a person to be that alone, surrounded by numbers and paper and theories and such. You need human interaction, sweetie, just like the rest of us."

Jane nods solemnly, her attempted smile failing to arrive. She's too overwhelmed to think right now. Too much in agreement with Isabela to argue.

Isabela gives her one hard nod. "You come see us again, now, you hear?" she says firmly. "I don't want to hear no more about you being up all night by yourself eating a pop tart for dinner. That way lies madness. Ain't no one should be so alone and stuck inside of their own head. Ain't right." She sighs, turns her head to look at poor, old Sam, who's whole world seems to be revolving around the last, lingering bite of pie. "All that lonesomeness," she murmurs, "It'll do bad things to a person." She looks back at Jane, "You don't let a good soul like yours go bad that way, you got it?"

Speechlessly, Jane nods again. She doesn't know what to say.

* * *

It takes Jane a long time to go back to her lab. She spends hours wandering the tiny handful of roads that make up the town. She fights back against the nightmare and the dark magic with Isabela's smile and her soup as her ammunition. It's not much, but its better than the nothing she had that morning.

She watches people as they go about the process of living. Watches them leave their houses, walk their dogs, buy groceries. She watches the town's small number of kids clamber off the school bus and run without hesitation to one boy's yard, screaming and yelling about how much their teacher sucked and how great Tim's mom's cookies were. Would they be chocolate chip or peanut butter today?

Jane has no real affinity for kids, but their energy, their absolute joy at being alive, forces a smile to her lips. She pauses her feet, watches them running, their backpacks bobbing up and down as they disappear around a corner. She needs to live, she realizes. Even if Loki never comes and this feeling of black magic never stops dancing on her spine, she still needs to live. This might not be her world, exactly, but it is some version of her that lives here. And that version hasn't been doing any better at living than she has. It might just be time for things to change.

And was it really such a tough thing to do? To compromise on a theory that might never have any chance of being proven true in this world? Especially when she knows now just what lies down that rabbit hole… No, maybe Donald was right all those years ago. Maybe her life would have been better with a family and babies and the safety of an actual, real home. She'd been too much in love with being on the outside of things for too long. Had come to believe that she couldn't turn around or change her mind. That she was right and couldn't be wrong. She can see that now. Can see just how well that line of thought works out when you don't get lucky enough for gods to fall out of the sky and onto your van. She nods her head, agrees with herself. She'll get back to the lab and she'll call Eric. She'll tell him she's made a mistake. That she wants to start over again. That she'll listen this time.

She ignores the fact that her heart is hammering inside her chest, that the smile she pastes onto her lips is fragile and fake. Deep down, she wants to stay hidden in the desert. She's been _infected_ by dark magic, and she doesn't belong in this world, and she _knows_ her theory is right. She wants things that aren't helpful to her, aren't healthy. And its self-destructive. She has a name for it now. That specific brand of selfishness and stubbornness and the refusal to see beyond her own determined beliefs. That self-defeating thought process that undermines her when she needs to reach out and not be alone and stuck in her own head. That ridiculous notion that she's in the right, even if she might really not be.

Yeah, she has a name she can attach to all of that. And she knows now, really knows, that it does lead to madness. Which is exactly why she'll go home and do the opposite of what she wants to do deep down inside. Her feet will find the steps that lead back to the lab, and she'll smile at the people she passes, and wave in the window of the diner at Isabela. She'll get to the lab, and turn the key in the lock, and she'll step inside the door, and she'll walk right past the humming equipment and the computer screens and the piles of paper. She'll pick up the phone and she'll make the right choice. She won't even hesitate. Not even to watch the sun set, the almost-cleared sky glowing in vibrant reds and orange. Alright, maybe she'll pause and watch that. But only because it is beautiful, and she doesn't know the next time she'll see a desert sunset, because who knows how soon Eric will want her to leave?

Jane swallows hard, feels the tears well up in her eyes. The hand holding the phone falls to her side. The dial tone drones on. She lifts one hand, drags the palm across her eyes. She's weak. Weak and stupid and stubborn and, dammit, she knows she's right. Her theories are all _right_. How can she just leave and pretend like she's been wrong? That its okay for no one to believe her, for her to work on something like the energy crisis, just because that would be helpful and healthy and good for everyone?

She's a terrible person. She sees that now. And it will destroy her. All of this, all of these things that she's been living for, will eat her up inside and leave her bitter and twisted and alone. She knows it's a mistake, knows where it will lead, and she'll still do it. Because she's like _him_.

It isn't sympathy. Not really. She hates herself for being this way, and it's a justification she'll use forever if it means she can keep hating him. It's… understanding. She gets it now. She really does. You believe something long enough and hard enough, eventually it becomes your reality, even if it isn't really. You can't escape yourself. You can't even make peace with yourself. You can only keep going, keep trying, keep forcing your ideas on anyone who will listen. And then eventually, you'll hit a wall, and then you're stuck. Stuck inside all your own faults and mistakes and still, you can't turn back. You can't undo any of it. It isn't even insanity. Not really. It's just… being trapped.

She sighs. The air catches in her throat. She won't cry. She presses the button that turns the phone off, sets it back gently into its base. You can't fight yourself, she thinks, even when you should really know better. The sun has slipped down past the horizon line now, and only a dull orange glow remains in the west. She turns her back on it, faces the quiet room, awash in the pale blue-white glow of computer screens. There's the slightest movement in the corner of her eye, and her eyes are suddenly drawn to the chair by the table in what passes for her dining area. A pair of bright eyes watch her, strangely knowing in their intensity. His face is almost too pale in the washed-out light that fills the room. He looks almost ghostly, except that no ghost can pull off his brand of casual disregard. He's leaning back in the chair, black leather boots resting on top of her table. The artificially blue light shines off the polished parts of his armour and the blackest strands of his hair. For a moment, her heart is in her throat.

"Miss me?" he says finally, his tone mocking and elegant and dark enough to send a shiver up her back. His lips turn up slowly into a vaguely amused smirk as he watches her struggle to find words.

She wants to glare at him, but there's something too sad and too heavy sitting on her heart. Her look doesn't feel hard enough to be a glare, even to her. She doesn't actually take her eyes off of him though as she steps back, hand reaching behind her to trip across the light switch. The room fills with a yellow-orange brightness that almost seems worse than the shadows. Frustration rises within her. "I eat off that table, you know," she spits back finally, letting her stare settle on his boots.

He laughs at that. Which, really, she should have expected by now. Her voice came out too tired to be biting or snappy or clever. The words came out as a sigh of gentle dismay rather than any sort of reprimand. She's still too thrown by her own realizations to process things properly. She isn't prepared for a fight.

In fact, she really isn't prepared for anything except a shower. She's covered in dust from her day spent amongst the sand. Her clothes are worn, her sweater sleeves frayed. Her hair is lank, and while she had braided it into submission earlier, it was all in the process of escaping now. She looks away from him altogether. Even his boots too shiny to bear. She's a disaster, right now. As rumpled and exhausted on the outside as she is within. And he looks perfect. Armour shining and well-polished, hair slicked perfectly into place, lips curled into his careless smirk. He doesn't look like he's trapped by his choices or destroyed his own life. Then again, maybe in this world, he hasn't.

"Where were you?" she asks finally, the room too quiet now that his clipped laughter has faded from her ears.

"Asgard," he drawls, "Apparently things are far less interesting in this universe. I never thought to invite frost giants to Thor's coronation." Jane lets her gaze slide back to him. He shakes his head, "No disruption, no visit to Jotunheim," he continues, his eyes on his own hands, as if he's weighing out the effects of things, "No visit, no punishment. No realizations. No fall." He tips his head, eyes focusing slowly on her. He shrugs, "Nothing happens."

"So everything is peachy then?" she says. She can't hide the bitter note in her voice. It seems so strange that the event that pulls everything to pieces there is what she requires to make anything mean something here. Strange, but not necessarily unexpected. It would take destruction to bring vindication to a self-destructive life, wouldn't it?

He moves slowly, letting the chair's feet hit the floor softly as he stands and moves away from the chair. His eyes narrow as he looks around the lab and moves closer to her. Dark eyes drag up the length of her body and Jane folds her arms self-consciously. "What?" she spits.

He pauses within arms reach. "No punishment means no Thor," he murmurs, "No Thor means you never find your proof of theory." His gaze is distant, "So here you are. Still stranded in the desert." He looks around the lab, with its layers of paper and dust and electronic bits, "All alone."

"I'm fine," she replies flatly, her gaze hard. She might have had some profound revelations today, but she has no intentions of sharing them with him. Not when he's managing to look oddly smug about the entire situation.

"Of course," he purrs, in motion once more. He pauses by the whiteboard she's left propped up on a chair. His eyes flash across her scrawling writing. He drops into a crouch, peering at the words. One hand reaches out, thumb smearing over one question mark and then another.

She remembers her questions then. "How can you do magic?" she demands suddenly. "I mean, if you were really human," she gestures at the place he's just erased, "And a cat?"

He shrugs slightly, speaking without turning to face her, "Magic is a matter of will," he says lightly, "It doesn't require more than simply wanting something enough and in the right way."

"There's a right way to want something?" she asks lamely before she can help herself. She watches him turn his head to stare at her over his shoulder. She sighs, "Of course there is," she answers for herself, "But that can't be all there is to it. I mean, the energy requirements for creating a wormhole are absolutely immense –"

He shrugs again, "Then its just as well we have such an infinite source, isn't it?"

She swallows hard. The creeping sensation of the dark magic has wrapped itself around her spine again. "What are you talking about?" she asks quietly, her voice already holding all the dread she feels. He's said before that she is the reason they're traveling between dimensions. That he can't go without her. It stands to reason that she's providing all that extra energy. And then there's the dream.

He must hear the tremble in her voice, the barely contained fear, because the harsh angles of his face almost soften for a moment. Jane lets herself sink to her knees, keeping her eyes on his. "What did," her voice falters and fails. She takes a deep breath, "What's happening to me?"

He's watching her, his storm-coloured eyes devoid of sympathy. "How about," he begins slowly, "You tell me what has been happening to you, and I'll do my best to explain why?"

"Then you do know?" she demands, hope suddenly springing into life within her, intermingling with her fear.

"I might," he says curtly, his jaw tight, "But I also might not. So do tell me."

Jane swallows hard. "I feel," she pauses, feels her hands twitch into nervous movement, "I feel like there's this… _thing_ in my head. Like," she struggles for the words to describe it, eyes dropping to her hands as they twist in her lap, "Like an oily shadow. It's just black and horrible and _there_. It's on my spine and in my head and its dark and its terrible and wants… it wants _something_. I know it does. And the dreams," she lifts her hands and buries her face in them, hiding from the fact that she has to let him see her scared for her to get answers. "I dreamed I wasn't me," she says finally, her voice suddenly bizarrely calm, "I dreamed I was the thing, except I wasn't a thing at all. More like the absence of a thing. I couldn't see, but I could _feel_. And I –" she cuts herself off, lets her hands fall back into her lap. His eyes are focused intently on her. She takes a breath, stares at him in wonder, "Is string theory real?"

For a moment, the room is silent. Jane actually has the time to watch Loki's expression shift from guarded concern to pure incredulity. "Is string theory…" he repeats the words, saying them as if they are meaningless babble.

Jane sighs in frustration. "This is important," she says, "If its real then what I dreamed was – "

"Real," he agrees, nodding, "But I do not see the significance of strings - "

"String theory," Jane repeats, dragging a hand through her hair and freeing even more of it from her tangled braids. "String theory is one explanation for how the universe works. It – "

"Is probably wrong," he interrupts.

"You can't just say that without listening to what it is!" Jane exclaims, her hands waving wildly.

"I can," Loki says firmly, a grimace on his face, "And I will." He catches hold of her hands in his, holding them still between them until her gaze is forced to settle on him, "Because it doesn't matter."

Jane opens her mouth, and blinks when she finds both hands suddenly gripped in one of his and a single finger across her lips. "Jane Foster," he says quietly, "Believe me, it does not matter. The nature of the universe," he closes his mouth and frowns for a moment. "The nature of the universes," he begins again, "Is such that the moment you try to describe it or understand it with any precision, it changes. The simple act of observing it changes it. Trust me," he says, dragging out the words she hates so dearly when they come from him, "It would take far greater and more terrible beings than we to comprehend the complexity of eternity."

The finger slides away from her mouth, but Jane still says nothing. The weight of Loki's words is heavy on her. He hasn't said that its beyond her, or beyond human kind, but beyond them _both_, and that, she suspects, means everything. She takes a deep breath, "But the thing," she begins, "The thing in my head. It's what's moving us across dimensions?" He nods, once. "In my dream," she whispers, "It knew what it was doing. It… understood." His eyes are grave. "You just said," she stutters, "You just said that it would take something terrible to…" Her words drift away.

He actually looks troubled for a moment, his thin lips pressed into a tight frown, his eyes distant. The hand that holds both of hers loosens and he lets one of her hands slip free, uses the other to pull her up alongside him. "Come," he says, the word more of an offer than an order, as he pulls gently on the hand that he still holds. He leads her to the couch, where he lets her sit. He frees her remaining hand and turns away from her. He takes the few steps to the window. His head tilts. "How much," he asks softly, "Do you understand of what Malekith did to you?

She doesn't say a word. She's believed that it was about dark magic, used to hold her captive and still… but there things she doesn't remember. Lost time that Thor swept aside. She doesn't know what has been done to her. She suspects she doesn't understand it at all. The blanket that kept her company only this morning has found its way back into her grip. Her fingers curl around the fabric as she watches Loki's back, absorbs the downward lean of his dark head.

"There have always been spirits," he says softly, "Your own mythologies name most of them many times over. River spirits and forest spirits and spirits of lakes and dreams and caves and homes. Most of them are kind," he says this with a brittle tone, "But only because Midgard has been under Asgard's protection for most of the history of your kind. And that has weight, you know." He pauses, as if he's aware himself of being off-topic. He sighs, continues to look out the window, "But you also have evil spirits and demons. Most of them come from within the Nine Realms. If they are based on real beings at all, they are based on the Dark Elves, the Dverger, or the Jotnar." His accent lilts over the foreign names.

"There are also spirits in your myths that have no affiliation. Dark, shapeless spirits beholden to forces of chaos, rather than good or evil. Beings who can drive a man mad or share the secret mysteries of the universe, or perhaps drive men mad by doing so," Loki's voice echoes with a faint amusement. He pauses, his voice growing rougher, "They _are_ real."

"How do you know?" Jane hears herself ask, her voice soft. There is a long pause, its silence overridden by the hum of the machines in the next room and the whisper of her own breath.

"I met them," he says finally, the words tearing themselves from him forcibly. He sounds like he doesn't quite believe his own words. "When I fell," he says, his voice catching on his words, "They were there. Dark spirits ruling in the places between worlds. Changing and shaping and pulling at the universes." One of his hands is pressed against the window glass, the skin pale and tendons tensed. "They," he pauses, his words running dry again, "I don't think they liked me being there. They… pushed me into the realm ruled by Thanos."

Jane sits very still. "What are they doing?" she asks, her voice a tremulous wobble, "Pulling at universes?"

He shakes his head, "Causing trouble, I suppose. It was not clear. I could not… there's no way to ask questions there. It's all…"

"I know," she whispers. And he turns to look at her. He's terribly pale against the darkness of the encroaching night beyond him. He almost looks vulnerable.

"I suppose you do," he says finally, "It was one of them that Malekith put into you."

"Yeah," she says softly, "I kinda got that." She looks down at her hands, twisted and tangled in the blanket. "I was supposed to die," she muses, "Wasn't I?" When she looks up, Loki has looked away, his eyes studying the flashing prompt on a computer screen. "As long as I'm alive, that thing is stuck in me, isn't it?" she says finally, her voice eerily calm, "And its just going to keep trying to find ways for me to get killed so it can be free."

"No," he interrupts, still looking elsewhere. "It's life is bound to yours. It's going to try to keep you alive for as long as it can."

"But it shouldn't be here," she says, "It'd be safer if it wasn't." His silence is as good as agreement, "It would be safer if I was dead."

His jaw tightens as he swings around, eyes wild, "Is that what you'd want?" he demands. "You would rather be dead, a hero for the ages, than alive? Just so the rest of the world can be safe?" He stares at her, frustrated anger written across his face, "You would be dead. Your life over. Just so that all the stupid, insignificant beings around you could be just a tiny bit safer?"

For a moment, Jane wants to leap to her feet. She wants to point a finger at his chest and say something self-righteous about how she would make that sacrifice a hundred times over, and the fact that he would ever believe otherwise is only because he's so selfish and cruel that he wouldn't be willing to himself. Except that while the last part might be true, the first part isn't. She's really, really glad she's alive. She's not even in the right world, but she's still happy she's alive. She doesn't want to be dead. And yes, it is selfish, but it's a selfish that she understands now. Her own life has never been about making the world a better place. It's been about proving herself to be right. She doesn't leap to her feet.

"No," she says, meeting Loki's gaze, "No, I wouldn't." She tugs a loose curl back behind her ear, "I'd rather be alive. I'd rather be dangerous to others. It's," she sighs, "It's selfish. It's really, really selfish. But I'm glad you saved me. It's better to be alive."

He looks both surprised and mollified all at once. "Well," he begins, the tension leaking back out of his frame, "Good." She gets the strange feeling that for once he's at a loss. "Because I'd really rather not have to deal with you trying to kill yourself when I'm trying to get home," he says finally.

"We," she corrects, "We are trying to get home."

His eyes linger on her for a moment. "Unless there's a better world," he says, his tone deceptively light.

"A better world?" she repeats skeptically.

"There are millions of universes, Jane," he says, his voice smooth as silk, "We could search forever and never find the right one. Wouldn't it be better, if we find the right world, to simply stay?"

Jane narrows her eyes, "And what happens to the Jane and Loki in that world when we steal their lives?"

He shrugs, "You assume I care."

Jane frowns, earlier concerns washing over her. "We could search forever," she echoes. He looks at her, interest piqued. "There must be worlds we don't exist in," she says finally, "What happens to us in those ones?"

He blinks at her. "We won't go to those ones," he says finally. "The dark spirit won't let us. If you cease to exist, then so will it. If I cease to exist, then there's no one to pull you back out of a dimension so it can visit the place it belongs."

There's a hollow ball of disbelief in her stomach. "It's that easy?" she says, feeling oddly ill. "The evil, dark spirit living inside of me won't let us pop into a universe where we don't exist?"

His look suggests he is suffering. "It isn't _evil_," he snaps, "It's a force of _chaos_. That's neutral, at worst."

"Like you're neutral at worst?" she retorts, "Cause the myths all say you're about chaos, but then you're all about destruction too. And what I've seen? It's all been pretty high on the evil scale, you know."

His mouth snaps shut. Then opens, "Like the part where I keep saving your life?"

Jane shrugs, "I'm home to a friendly Dark Spirit, and thus possibly dangerous to the poor innocents of the world. I really don't think you can use saving me as a redeeming act of goodness." She frowns, "Also, half the time you're the reason my life is in danger!"

"That," he says, his voice finally taking on the imperious tone she hates most as he seizes her by the wrist, "Is quite enough."

"No," she says suddenly, processing his intent only too quickly, "No, Loki, I still have _questions_ –" But she can read the several varieties of vicious smirk he wears, and the sensation of being ripped from her body is already sliding through her. "Damn it, Loki!" she snarls.

It all goes quite dark.

* * *

_Next time: We get away from filling plot holes and explaining stuff and go back to just having fun with it. :P_


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter 8**

Now that she knows it is real, she can feel the spirit. Black and warm and fluid, Jane becomes aware of its presence, its very conscious mind, carrying hers. For that fractured moment before Jane's mind connects with this stranger's body, she feels what can't be felt and sees what can't be seen. The spirit looks into her and she into it. Then, with the gentlest of psychic nudges, Jane slams into the nerves and fibers and flesh of the physical world, and the spirit folds back into the imagined space around her spine.

She wants to gasp for air, but her lips and tongue don't quite work. She's swaying on her toes, muscles tensed and head aching. But for the first time, she's standing. Its almost enough for Jane to imagine that these shifts might be getting easier. She straightens, shaking her head to focus, and lets the movement travel down her body.

Which, she realizes a split second later, she shouldn't be able to do. With eyes shut tight, she attempts to uncurl the toes of her left foot. It takes just a moment too long, the toes sliding out from around the smooth, thin surface they have wrapped around. Jane swallows hard, the action stretching her neck and bobbing her head. Her body shifts, and she throws her arms wide for balance. But they don't open right, the angle is off and they are far heavier than they should be.

Fear blooms in Jane's chest and suddenly her heart is beating out a frantic rhythm. Her eyes slide open, and the world is entirely wrong. She's bombarded by a world that makes no sense. Flat and wide and bright and full of colours she can't quite name. She opens her mouth to scream, but she can't find the right way to move her lips, and then she's falling again, her arms flapping against the force of gravity. Literally flapping. She can see the feathers moving at her sides.

It's entirely too much, and Jane falls the seemingly endless distance from what might be a perch to a ground covered in what sounds like crinkled paper. She lies there, on her side, one arm pinned awkwardly by the suddenly bizarre shape of her own body. Her breath comes in desperate gasps. She tries to get her feet back under her, but her arms are atrociously heavy, and everywhere she looks, she sees too much.

She closes her eyes, tells herself to lie still. She forces her breath to come more slowly. Tries opening and closing the mouth that she's fairly certain is, in fact, a beak. She thinks about birds. Thinks about feathers and wings and flight dynamics. She leans upwards, freeing the feathers trapped beneath her body, and flaps experimentally. Once, twice, and she's suddenly skittering on toothpick legs and toes.

Eyes wide now, she's staring at the world, her head turning every time she tries to move her eyes. Her field of view is impossibly huge. She lets out a gasp that fills her ears with a terrified sounding chirp. She flutters her wings again, unsure about whether she's trying to fly, or to simply stay upright.

"Again, Sparrow?" a woman's voice cuts through the air, "You won't ever get used to your feathers if you insist on thinking like a person."

Jane moves her head too quickly, her mind failing at piecing together the immense, kaleidoscopic world. She flutters her wings again, unable to comprehend how she's supposed to move. She has the vague impression of something very large moving towards her, and then she discovers that she can puff her feathers out on demand. She's teeteringly off-balance already when the thin lines disappear from a section of her view.

She isn't prepared for the sudden invasion of her space by something huge and reaching. Giant walls move in to surround her, catching her body in a grasp halfway between gentle and firm. She twitches and struggles and tries to open her pinned wings. Her beak scrapes against the walls, opens and bites down on the strangely soft and giving material.

"Sparrow!" the woman's voice comes as a hiss, "I thought we were beyond this!"

The walls flex around her, and Jane's whole world melts into the sensation of sudden and complete agony. She crumples, wings and feathers and feet all beyond her very rudimentary sense of control. Awareness crunches down into nothing but feeling. Pain radiates through her, spasming through muscles and tearing at her mind. She sinks deeper into herself, searching for someplace where the pain can't reach.

She finds it. Deep and dark and tasting like eternity, the thing wrapped around her spine pulls her in and folds itself around her. For a time, she is safe and warm and protected. She can feel the spirit curling and shifting around her awareness, twisting itself into the place between the pain and whatever is most fundamentally herself. Somewhere outside of herself, Jane can hear someone mutter something, can feel a puff of breath stir her feathers and, beneath that, a more complex shift. Dimly, she's aware of her body dropping and landing hard onto dusty, solid ground. The spirit pulls her in tighter, sends a wave of warmth through her, and holds on as Jane realizes that her very _bones_ are stretching and shifting and growing. By the time Jane has realized what is happening, the spirit has already begun to pull away, sinking back like an ebb tide from the shore that is Jane.

"Sparrow," the woman's voice commands, "Get up."

Jane shivers, feels sensation flow back through her limbs. Arms and legs and head and body all the shape she's familiar with. Not a bird, she thinks dully, not really.

"Sparrow!" the woman shrieks, "Whatever has gotten into you will stop. Immediately!"

Jane opens her eyes wearily, blinks in the dusty air around her. She's wearing some sort of worn fabric that has somehow evaded the process of becoming soft, and it itches against her grimy skin. She's almost ready to try to sit up when talon-like nails sink into her scalp.

"If you won't stand," the woman snarls, her voice like broken glass, "Then I will _make_ you." She pulls at Jane's hair, fingers tangling roughly into the matted mess atop her head, physically dragging Jane to her knees.

"Stop," Jane chokes, "What did I ever do to you?" She won't admit to the tears pricking her eyes, or the echo of a sob in her voice.

"What did you do?" the woman barks, "You made me regret ever purchasing such a lazy, incompetent mortal. _That_ is what you did." She shakes Jane by the hair, letting go of her as viciously as she took hold.

Jane looks up at the woman, seeing her properly for the first time. She stands as straight and thin as a supermodel, her skin a tawny tone reminiscent of gold. Her pointed ears arch elegantly from her golden blonde hair. Her face is a portrait of haughty arrogance, all strong lines and symmetry. Her eyes are a violent turmoil of orange and yellow, strangely large and alluring, even in mid-afternoon haze. She would be beautiful if she wasn't so evidently cruel. Her lips purse into a spiteful, angry frown and her eyebrows press into violent arcs.

Jane stares at her for a long moment. Somewhere, her brain is processing what this woman has said, about her being purchased. Somewhere, she is piecing together what she knows about the Nine Realms and the beings that inhabit them. Somewhere, she is deducing that the fierce and magnificent creature in front of her is a light elf. In the most present parts of her mind, however, she isn't thinking at all.

The moment she gets to her feet is in slow motion for Jane. Mainly because it is followed by frantic, desperate action. Her feet are no sooner flat in the dust than she is running. Bare feet cling to cobbled stone as she dodges left and skitters around the barrel she finds in her way. There's a market stall beside her, adorned with tiny birdcages. Dozens of songbirds twitter and chirp as the baskets sway. Jane spares only a moment to stare at them in horror. She stows away the moment of understanding. She's going to need way too much therapy to deal with all of this when she gets home.

Then she's running down a crowded street, her body feeling thin and reedy as she squeezes and shoves between bundles and stalls and people she doesn't want to look at too closely. There's a cacophony of sound: screams and yells and whistles and the sound of creaking wheels and horses' hooves. She scrambles over a bale of hay, scaring a pair of chickens as she goes. She hopes they aren't really human too.

"Hey, girl!" a gruff voice demands as she slips beneath a stilt-like pair of legs. She darts down an alleyway, scrambling past a heap of tattered, old clothes that on second glance appears to own giant ears and a gnarled carrot nose. She shoves past a pair of children, squeaking out a sorry to them, and realizing only a moment later that kids aren't supposed to have beards and potbellies and axes in their belt loops. Wide-eyed, she focuses back on her run.

She bursts from the alley and out into another street, trampling over the train of a ridiculously beautiful dress worn by a dangerously beautiful woman with golden skin and pointed ears. Jane swallows the sudden loathing in her throat and pushes by her and the entourage of golden gentlemen who surround her. "Oh!" she hears the woman exclaim, "There goes one of the native girls!" Her voice is like the shimmer of bells, "Aren't they just fascinating? Lives as short as mayflies - it's no wonder she runs!"

She eludes another towering pair of legs, hesitating for only a second at their blue hue and blatantly ignoring the grunt from above. Her hip collides with a pile of baskets which go spinning and chasing out into the street. Tripping over its rolling, tumbling form, she collides with a burly humanoid shape. Fingers scratching down slick armour, she screams in the face of a bewildered dark elf before spinning away from him and into the arms of yet another.

"Looks like we've caught ourselves a slave," one drawls, a smirk on his pale features. "I have heard that mortal women can be a great deal of fun in –"

Jane brings up her knee in the most vicious of moves Darcy has ever taught, pushes the elf's hands away from her and weaves between him and his still surprised companion. She leaps clear over what appears to be a cat comprised of smoke and ash and twists in midair to avoid the shield that is suddenly swinging in front of her. Faces that look too handsome to be human stare at her, their armour and weapons strangely familiar to her eyes. "Asgard?" she squeaks.

"Vanaheim," the brown-haired warrior replies, puzzled bemusement on his face.

Jane nods, "Of course. My mistake." She flashes him a nervous smile and exhaustedly spins on her heel. She can hear the pair of dark elves yelling behind her. Can feel some sort of burning pressure around her neck worsening. She is altogether frantic. And damn if she isn't going to actually _murder_ Loki.

There's an intersection ahead, and she's about to slip around the corner when a shaggy, golden dog dashes between her feet. For a moment, she's falling yet again, arms wheeling uselessly. Then, she's suddenly not. Strong arms hold her tight, their heavy armour digging into the flesh of her forearms. "Now, now," the familiar voice booms around her, "What is the meaning of all this?"

Jane looks up, opens her eyes with a slowness that borders on comical. Warm, blue eyes stare down at her, confusion and amusement warring for dominance. Her breath stutters in her chest. The brown fabric of the shift she wears trembles with the exhaustion in her limbs. The arms holding hers become even more solid in her grasp. The eyes regarding her become solemn. She swallows, blinks, takes a ragged breath. "Thor?" she whispers, hating herself for the hope that is burning so terribly in that single murmured syllable.

His open face grows more guarded. "I am," he says slowly, "Though I would know how you have come to hear my name."

The exaggerated sigh at his shoulder sends Jane rocking in Thor's grasp. "Really, Brother," Loki's voice drawls, "You are the crown prince of Asgard. Do you really believe we can travel anywhere without you being recognized?" There's a pause during which Loki slides more fully into view, armour shining in the sunlight. "I did suggest disguises," he adds mockingly, "Though we did forego the helmets, at least."

Jane's eyes lock on him. "You aren't funny," she says, her brain still rattling inside her skull. Beneath her hands, she feels Thor's armour shift. His arms pull away from her, and she turns her head to see an expression she's never seen directed at her.

"You would do well to watch your tongue, mortal," Thor says, a mixture of fury and bewilderment in his eyes, "You speak to a royal prince of Asgard. You should consider yourself well-favoured to be spoken to by such as he."

"Brother," Loki interjects, "Leave it be." His voice is oddly soft and calming in its tone, "She has obviously been through much. You cannot hold her actions or her words against her now."

She watches a war of emotions filter across Thor's face. "You would do well to remember your place, human," he says finally, "A lesser man than he would demand you beg for forgiveness for the carelessness of your tongue."

She can't help the astonishment that scrawls itself across her face. She's never heard Thor speak so lightly of humans, never expected to see Loki be a moderating force. Her eyes search him out, find his green-blue gaze studying her patiently. Her empty hands flex and she wobbles on her feet. The constricting heat around her neck worsens. "I…" she begins, her fingers searching out the source of her discomfort, but finding nothing. She reaches out with the other hand, blindly searching for anything to hold onto.

She feels the hand that catches hers, knows its faint aura of coldness. Loki takes a step closer, peers down her with narrowed eyes. "Why…" she gasps, her fingers flexing across her windpipe, "Why does it _hurt_?"

Loki doesn't say a word. His jaw tightens as he runs fingertips over the smooth curve of her neck. "I see," he mutters, his voice hard as ice. His hand lays flat across her throat for the barest moment, and suddenly the pain is gone.

"Loki?" Thor prompts, surprise evident in his voice.

"She's a slave," Loki says, looking past her.

"Indeed," replies a voice that sends a shudder through Jane, "My slave, to be exact. My slave, who I can only believe you intend to purchase, seeing as how you just removed her collar."

She feels Loki's hand lock more securely around her own, "And you often let your merchandise go running through the streets, I suppose?"

She can feel the anger radiate off of the elf behind her. "She's not exactly my best stock," she snarls, "But good enough if you're looking for a pet."

"A pet?" Thor scoffs at their side. "What good is a human as a pet? They live half as long as a weak Garm, and are no use when hunting!"

"Perhaps for those looking for a less trying commitment," Loki smirks, catching Jane's horrified gaze and winking.

Thor takes a deep breath, "Brother, I really must protest. What possible use could you have for a mortal?"

"There are a few," the elf provides, her tone maliciously suggestive, "I could elaborate for you."

"I believe that is quite alright," Loki interrupts. "But you must realize she is quite thin? And tired looking. Is she ill?" Jane curls her fingernails into the hand that is still firmly wrapped around her own. Loki stares down at her, a wicked amusement in his eyes, "Surely you are offering some sort of deal for such a substandard creature?"

"She is willful," the elf snorts, "Fine. Six gold and I'll be done with it."

Loki smirks, his eyes refusing to leave Jane's as he tosses the elf woman a small bundle. She snags it from the air and shrugs, "Enjoy your new human."

"I believe I already do," Loki says, his voice pitched low enough for only Jane to hear.

"I really hate you," she hisses in reply.

* * *

If Loki were any sort of decent person, Jane figures they would be out of this world and into the next by now. She's not that lucky, though. He hasn't let go of her hand yet, and he seems to playing some sort of game that involves Thor looking at him with weary confusion while he grins and leads all three of them through the marketplace from hell.

If her slapdash journey through the market was frightening, this slow inspection is somewhere between fascinating and terrifying. No fewer than three varieties of giant are present, their knees thronged by what seem to be dwarves and goblins. Elves of both the light and dark variety are going about all manner of business, some of which actually manages to make the sale of human slaves look ethical. Everywhere she turns, Jane is tempted to close her eyes and cover her ears and refuse to process a single thing more.

Finally, she can't take a moment more without knowing. "Where are we?" she blurts, using the hand Loki still has captured in his own to pull him back. "What is this place?"

His eyes glitter dangerously for a moment as he swings himself back to face her. "Where do you think we are?" he asks, his tone deliberately obtuse.

Jane swallows hard. "I don't know," she admits, "I mean, it's a marketplace. Maybe they all have this many different… people."

"Is that a hint of racism, dear Jane?"

Jane's jaw tightens in consternation. "I seem to remember you saying that frost giants would kill me as soon as look at me. And, you know, the last time we met dark elves, they were trying to kill us." She pauses, "And that last elf…" Her jaw works without words coming out. She looks away from Loki's suddenly curious gaze. She watches one of those strange smoke cats chase a rat with burning coal eyes. "Let's just say that after that I really don't see what makes those light elves all that light."

"She hurt you," Loki says, an expressionless statement of fact. His fingers slip beneath her chin and direct her gaze back into his. For a moment, she fights him. There's a ghost of pressure on her jaw, and she relents. His eyes are unreadable. "This is Midgard," he says quietly, "Here, after the Ice Wars, Asgard gave up its protection of Midgard. The elves are rather opportunistic people. The realm changed hands between them every fifty or sixty of your years, mostly as the result of business deals. It's a centre of commerce now, the mercantile hub of the World Tree."

"Why?" Jane hears herself ask, shock leaving her without the benefit of full sentences.

"Why would Asgard give up Midgard?" Loki shrugs, "Who knows? But there would be at least one world somewhere where that decision was made." He pauses, reading a deeper question out of her terror-stricken gaze, "You know why your kind would be treated this way, don't you?"

She pulls her chin from his grip, stares at the dust-coated stones of the street. "Is this what you had planned for us?" she asks bitterly. "Subjugate the humans and put them in their place and then rule from on high? As if lifespan determines how much you're worth?"

He's silent. The seconds pass. Jane turns her eyes back to him. He's standing very still, watching her. Her shakes his head very slowly, as if he is regaining the ability to move. "You have no idea what I had planned for you," he says finally, "But no, it would have been nothing like this." He leans in then, his eyes narrowing and going quite dark, "Believe me, Jane, my ambitions are not nearly so small."

"Then what would you have done?" She's pushing it, but she's got nothing left to lose with him at this point. He needs her to get from one world to the next. And she wants answers of some sort or another.

"I would have brought you all to greatness," he hisses, his head bowed now so his forehead is almost touching hers, "You would have walked as equals among the gods, if you would only have bowed to me."

Jane stands as straight as she can, stares at him hard. They're so far into each others space that their noses are practically touching. She licks her lips, juts her chin, "You have a really messed up concept of equal, you know."

She watches his nostrils flare with frustrated anger, feels his grip on her hand tighten so that it borders on painful. "Loki?" Thor's voice calls, "Brother! You really must come see this! This dvergar claims to have taken on a bilgesnip single-handed! Can you imagine? One dvergar?"

"Let me guess," Jane purrs, holding Loki's gaze, "This isn't finished?" She smiles when he snarls in response, freeing her hand and prowling the distance to Thor's side like a caged tiger.

She flexes her freed hand, and gazes around the market. A light elf in light armour is staring at her lecherously from a stall that appears to be selling pie. Her smile fades and she shudders. With a sigh, she follows after Loki.

* * *

Jane has decided one thing for sure. She really does not like this world's version of Thor.

They've stopped for supper in some sort of tavern that looks like it would fail even the lamest health codes. She could swear that she's seen at least four rats skirting the bar. Different ones. She can tell because there seem to be as many types of rats as there are races of people in this place. The smallest and most set upon being the little grey ones. She feels oddly sympathetic.

"A toast to the Dvergar!" Thor bellows, beer slopping over the edge of his tarnished mug. His toast is taken up by no fewer than four dwarves, the loudest and smuggest among them being Thor's guest of honour, as the supposed slayer of a bilgesnip, whatever that was.

She looks sideways at Loki, who has glued on his least sincere smile and tipped a mug in Thor's direction. He puts it back down, eyeing the brownish muck it holds skeptically. They haven't said a word since the street. She sighs, "Is he always like this?"

Loki looks at her with wary surprise, "How would I know? Not from this world, am I?"

"Loki," she begins warningly.

He pauses and tilts his head at her. "You really want to know?" he asks. "You don't intend on questioning my motives or objectivity?"

She stares at him, "So the answer is yes then?"

The ghost of a smile tugs at his thin lips. "Yes," he replies, "For most of our existence, he has been as you see now."

Jane casts a glance back over at him. She wrinkles her nose as Thor snags one of the tavern's serving girls, a wide-eyed light elf with exceptionally shiny golden hair, and settles her down onto his lap. The elf giggles, the sound as bright as she is. Thor buries his face in the golden hair, his weighty laughter supporting hers.

"You can see," Loki begins, "Exactly why I was so perturbed when he returned from knowing you with such mighty and pure ideals."

Jane feels her head swing around as swiftly as it had when she'd been in a sparrow's feathers. "Are you serious?" she asks, astonishment in her voice, "You think _I'm_ the reason he changed?"

Loki looks down into the mug, wraps a hand around it, and half lifts it before putting it back down. "You _are_ the reason he changed," he says finally, "Whatever the reason for that might be."

Jane shakes her head. "You're unbelievable," she says, "You really think that a _girl_ is all it takes to change someone?" She slides closer, "The reason Thor changed is because he _grew up_. He realized that he wasn't the center of the universe, that there were bigger things happening. He put his life on the line to save others. He was willing to sacrifice himself…" Loki stares at her, head tilted. She pauses, licks her lips, and looks away. "He didn't change because of me," she murmurs, "Cause he really couldn't have learned any of that from me."

"It isn't about being taught." Jane looks up again, watches Loki stare morosely at Thor, "It's about having something worth sacrificing oneself for."

"I'm not worth that," she whispers.

"He thought you were, once. It only takes a moment to make a hero out of an oaf."

"How long does it take to make one out of a villain?"

Loki looks at her, an expression of consternation on his face. "Don't even dream it, Foster," he snarls darkly.

Jane feels a smile creep across her face, "Why not?"

His eyes flash dangerously, lip curling, "It isn't wise to provoke me."

Jane shrugs, "Its really the only entertainment worth having in this place."

"The only entertainment?" Loki repeats, drawing the words out in bemusement and surprise. He inclines his head towards a huddled group of snarling dark elves. Dressed in battered black leather armour, with wickedly curving blades tucked into their belts, they cut the stereotyped image of fantasy tavern trash. One looks up to gesture for more ale, the jagged scar running down the length of one cheek illuminated in the dim firelight.

"What?" Jane prompts, "Planning on inventing a fantastic backstory for them?"

Loki just smirks, waves a hand lazily in their direction. "Just watch," he purrs, eyes on his prey.

There's a moment during which Jane wonders if maybe she should take his advice and avoid provoking him, and then there's a sudden flurry of movement. The dark elf huddle has leaped to their feet, three of them scrambling over their falling chairs while the fourth jumps atop the table. All are reaching for their swords with frantic desperation.

"Nidworm!" one shrieks, its sword hacking downward, "Nidworm!" The one atop the table is posed in girlish terror, one leg curled behind the other in an attempt to get as much of himself above the snake as possible. The remaining two continue to scramble away, their eyes wide with fear and surprise.

"Nidworm?" a nearby light elf barks. "On Midgard?" His eyes alight on the greenish-purple snake, now hissing and raised from the ground. Jaw dropped, the elf hops to his feet and begins to back towards the tavern's door.

"Hey, you!" the tavern owner cries, "No sneaking out without paying your bills!"

"There's a…" the elf turns to point at the vicious serpent, only to find that the creature is gone. The dark elf quartet are staring at the space with bulging eyes. The one standing on the table lowers his sword in slow motion. "Nidworm?" the light elf finishes lamely.

"Nidworm?" the dwarfen barkeep huffs, "Aren't none of those on Midgard. Everyone knows that!" He shakes his head, beard swinging violently, "That's enough of your rubbish. You come here and pay up. Now. Before you go sneaking off."

Jane looks at Loki in mild amusement. "Nah," she shakes her head, "Provoking you is definitely more fun."

She's rewarded with an oddly chagrined smile, "No more fun than provoking you, I'm sure."

Jane tilts her head at him, "Fair's fair, I guess."

She lets him take her hand this time. She wonders if dimensional travel is better when you're prepared for it…

* * *

_Next time: Jane has a "talk" with her friendly parasitic dark spirit. Loki ruins a cape. And a prince is thwarted in his attempt at a rescue mission._


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter 9 **

Consciousness might be a strange, poorly understood thing, but Jane is beginning to chart its furthest edges. Thought and perception emerge incrementally, with the feeling of waking from the deepest sort of sleep. She feels a sense of self first, then the body she slips into, and the world around her last of all. The spirit moves away from her, curling itself into a restful place in the deepest and most ancient parts of her mind.

She reaches out with nothing but a faltering intent. The spirit pauses in this mindspace they seem to share, consciousnesses butting against each other. Across the distance of what might be a purely metaphysical synapse, Jane pushes a single thought. _Thank you_, she thinks tentatively. She doesn't quite remember the moment the spirit wrapped itself around her and sheltered her during the light elf's torment, but she remembers the feeling. Folded into the spirit, she felt safe. The spirit was there to protect her. Whatever its reasons may have been.

At the edges of her awareness, the spirit wavers, and Jane has only the most fleeting sense that it simply doesn't comprehend. She tries again, pushing only the feeling of gratitude across the space. There's the faintest impression of hesitation, and then the smallest flood of warmth and comfort dribble across Jane's growing frustration. She wants to understand this entity whose existence has been left intertwined with her own. She just lacks a common language, and common experience.

The spirit slips away into the deepest parts of her brain, an oil-slick ghost in her body sense and a distant pressure in her mind. It seems to Jane that this is really the least obtrusive it can be, and she wonders at that. At what sort of dark spirit from outside of the knowable dimensions actively tries to minimize the hurt and harm and power it can wreak. Then she's torn from her philosophical wanderings, her delayed awareness forcing itself upon her with information about how this body feels and where it is and what it senses.

In the physical world she enters into, firelight flickers and flashes, casting moving shadows across stone walls. Jane sits up slowly, her movement made strange by the heavy layers of skirt that tangle around her legs. Her hands fist in the soft, shaggy furs she lays upon. Her eyes move slowly, drifting from the fire that blazes within the stone hearth to the tapestry-like hangings upon the walls. Here and there upon the floor are more scattered furs. Ancient, creaking shelves line a gently rounding wall, the books upon them bound with string, or perhaps something stranger. A single, large window looks out upon the night with nothing but a faded cloth bunched in its space to keep out the cool of the night beyond. Stars gleam in the darkened space beyond.

Benches made of rich, dark wood sit before the fireside, surrounded by pots and pans and utensils that border on medieval. More furs rest upon the bench, a bundle that shifts now, an arm reaching out to run a ladle through something that simmers in the heat of the hearth. The rich smell of stew lifts itself through the chilled air and reaches out to Jane. Her stomach growls softly.

"It's not ready, yet," a woman's voice offers, "Eat it now and you will only be sick." There's no threat or malice in the voice, but Jane feels her suspicions rise despite it. She stares warily at the woman by the fire, watching the orange flames reflect in the bronze tones of her hair. The woman turns, her face obscured by the dancing shadows, "Sleep, child. Tomorrow will come soon enough."

There's something warm and maternal in her words, and Jane feels them stir at the embers of her deepest hopes, even as sleep weighs heavily against her. Her eyelids droop, weighted with contentment. "There, now," the woman murmurs, "See? You're much too tired still. The night is close around us yet."

"Will you be here," Jane hears herself ask, the words soft around the edges, "In the morning?"

"Perhaps I shall," the woman hums in reply, "Or perhaps I shan't. But either which way, I will be back again soon. You know this, dear Jane. The patterns of our life are so simple."

A yawn pulls itself from deep within her lungs and a sweet, comfortable weariness settles over her. Jane shifts upon the pallet, drawing a soft, heavy fur over her. A faint, chill breeze stirs the cloth in the window and she shivers deliciously into the warmth of her bed.

"Mother?" Jane whispers, hope and love tight in her throat.

"Sleep, my child," the woman replies.

The bed is so comfortable, the woman's voice so kind, and so possibly a glimpse of her own actual mother, than Jane lets sleep swallow her up. She ignores the persistent tapping of the spirit against her consciousness. It doesn't feel urgent… but then… only sleep feels important… she must do as her mother says.

Jane sleeps.

* * *

Jane wakes to a stream of sunshine in her eyes. She pulls herself up from the mound of furs she's spent the night sleeping in and stares around in her an awkward state of awe. She has dim, shadowy memories of last night, waking in a stone-walled room to a woman cooking at a fire. She glances over to the giant hearth. Only the faintest wisps of smoke escape the ashes. The pot hangs heavy and full, the air still fragrant with the stew. There's no sign of its cook. Jane swallows her disappointment. The mystery woman will stay a mystery, she supposes. In the meantime, she has a pot of stew to sample and an entirely new world to explore.

She rises from the pallet and the furs, shaking wrinkles and creases from the heavy skirt she wears. She's dressed like a medieval peasant, she thinks, though probably cleaner. The brown fabric of the skirt is a bit rough between her fingers, though her top is soft at least. A white peasant-style shirt that makes her think of tavern wenches in movies about the seventeenth century. It's a change from her usual sweaters and jeans, but compared to what she wore in the last world, its almost comfortable.

She looks first to the window, crossing the cold stone floor in bare feet that sink eagerly into the furs that sprinkle the floor like rugs. She pushes aside the tattered cloth that is all that blocks her from the breeze beyond. The amused half-smile on her lips falls away. As far as the eye can see, she is surrounded by forest. In the distance, mountains crowded by fog rise up like giant walls. There's no signs of civilization. No roads or smoke trails or clearings carved into the forest for farms. Just a solid landscape of green stretching all around her, even crowding into the few feet of clearing that surround the base of the stone walls below.

Her stomach sinks like a stone. She's alone in the highest room of a solitary tower in the deepest, darkest forest she has ever seen. It's like something from a fairy tale. Except Jane Foster doesn't do fairy tales. Not since she was six years old and nestled into bed with her mother beside her, telling her the stories that would forever after be too bittersweet to read alone. Her heart rate jumps, and Jane lets the cloth drape itself back across the green vista beyond. She turns to the stone-walled room behind her and frantic eyes search for a door.

There is no door. Only the smooth, gentle curve of the walls encasing the space within. She runs fingers across the few expanses of bare stone, but finds no unnatural crease; no gaps in the mortar. She darts to the book shelves and her hands stretch out across the old, worn wood. There are no secret catches or releases. She begins to pull the books out, wondering if old movie tricks might work. The aging tomes, bound by string or, Jane shudders, sinew, fall to the floor with the whisper of manuscript paper and thinned-down skins. Their leather covers beat the stone floor like bass drum beats as they fall. Bare of their contents, the shelves only look older and more vacant.

Jane stares at the walls that encroach upon the space she stands in. They are a perfect circle, and Jane almost wants to hit herself for her panicked stupidity. She leans down and begins kicking and pulling and shoving the furs from their places upon the cold, stone floor. A dozen dead carcasses piled high, and Jane's floor remains a mystery of smooth stone. She sinks to the floor, her skirt bunching beneath her. Her hands press against the impossible rock. There's no way in or out. And its impossible, because the woman is not here.

There's a familiar pressure on her mind. The spirit's presence buoys up beneath her frantic confusion. It taps at her, pushing at an idea. "It's magic," Jane breathes, feeling the spirit brush her comfortingly with a tendril of feeling. Realization dawns upon her. "Last night," she murmurs, "The woman. It was a spell that made me feel that way. So tired. And…" her head falls, "Eager to please." Without words to communicate, Jane feels the spirit struggle to understand her. Jane sighs, "You were trying to warn me."

Her voice is a hollow ghost echoing off the walls of the room. Jane raises her head and stares around it dully. "I'm being held by a woman who does magic in a tower in the woods," there's a dried-out disbelief in her tone. A sudden thought crosses her mind as she peers back around the room. Her head falls again, "And there's no indoor plumbing."

Wearily, Jane rises to her feet, "I suppose," she says aloud, though she isn't really sure who she's speaking to, since the spirit seems to lack even a basic comprehension of language, "I should just be thankful that I don't have a mile of hair."

She trudges over to the still warm pot that hangs round and full from an iron bar in the hearth. The stew still smells magnificent. Only Jane's desire to eat has evaporated away. Her stomach growls despite her. She shrugs and finds a carved, wooden bowl and spoon amongst the scattered implements upon the bench and the ground by the hearth. With a heavy heart, she serves herself out a portion of the richly scented food. She eats it mechanically, only barely aware of its flavour or the motion of her jaw as she chews.

She's never been a fan of stories about damsels in distress. Even at age six, she remembers challenging her mother to make the princesses braver, more gutsy. Why did they wait around for princes to arrive? Now that she's here, she understands that its more a question of what else is there for her to do? A life spent in this tower, mind-raped by magic, there can't be much of an understanding of the outside world. No understanding means no dreams, no hopes, no aspirations. What could such a person aspire to? It really would take something, or someone, to break them out of their tiny, sheltered world.

But Jane Foster hasn't spent a lifetime in this tower. She's done more and seen more and struggled more than most people do, and she's well aware of it. Of course, she also has no idea what lives in these forests. No idea where she might find civilization, if it even exists. There's no villages within view. If she can find a way to leave, she still has no place to go.

With the stew residing in her belly, she finds her gaze attracted back to the haphazard pile of unfamiliar books. She might learn _something_ from them. If nothing else, they would give her something to pass the time. After all, she has no idea how long she'll have to wait for Loki to arrive.

And Jane freezes at that thought. Because here she is, a damsel, waiting on a man who is, technically, still a prince. The twisting of her stomach at this almost makes her wish she hadn't eaten the stew. Her jaw tightens, then releases as she forces herself to focus on other things. There is, after all, research to do.

She pokes through the books with a few reservations about the materials they have been crafted from. There's a hesitancy in her movements that fades as curiosity takes hold. The leather covers are mostly bare. Titles are located sometimes several pages deep, if they exist. She's rapidly lost in the work of deciphering the careful calligraphy. It's almost no time at all before she's sorted the books into two piles. A haphazard one devoted to slender tombs containing treatises on patience, honesty, chastity, and obedience, and heavier, darker tombs bent on vilifying humanity and its weaknesses. She takes note of the fact that they are there, and in such great numbers, and then moves calmly on to the books that are about things she can at least feign an interest in. This pile is smaller, but contains books with information she can use or at least can see a use for.

She thumbs through a guide to edible and medicinal plants, browses through thirty recipes for boar, and actually makes a study of the five traditional salves and poultices. By mid-afternoon, she's making headway through a book dedicated to the description and Linnaean-like classification of fantastical beasts. She eats another bowl of the stew, distracted enough to (almost) enjoy it, as she muses over the magical abilities of the three dragon races the book describes.

The sky is already darkening when her fingers search out the book that, upon opening, reveal the stars. She runs her fingers over the constellations, murmuring stranger's names to the stars she knows like friends. She creeps to the window and settles herself onto its wide ledge, careful to keep a leg hooked around the inside wall. The stone is cool against her back, but the book is open wide in her lap and the stars are already appearing, one-by-one, in the purple-hued sky. The faintest smile ghosts across her face as she spies Orion's Belt, traces out the Little Dipper, and charts the course of the cool-bright moon as it traverses the expanse of sky. It doesn't look like it, but she's on Earth. She's home. The stars, at least, are familiar.

When she sleeps, for the night winds are cool on her bare arms and she has no reason to wait out the night, she burrows down into the thick furs that make up her bed. She remembers, with an almost childish regret, the distaste she expressed for the fur-lined things they had given her on Asgard, in what feels now like another lifetime. She appreciates the warmth now. Appreciates that different worlds have different rules. That adaptation is, and will be, necessary.

It's the mantra she's using to justify the fact that she actually laughed at Loki's jokes; that she willingly encouraged (or at least, did not stop) his mischief. She knows better. She always knows better. She just does these foolish things anyway. One day, maybe she will remember what Loki is. Will remember to wield the self-righteous recrimination that is her right as a veritable hostage. In the meantime, it isn't impractical for her to adapt to the situation into which they've been thrown. It might be the only way to save her sanity. Beneath her conscious mind, she can feel the spirit hum companionably. She isn't sure if its agreement or consolation.

* * *

By her third day in the tower, Jane has exhausted the supply of books she wants to read. Boredom has a funny way of stalling time. She opens the covers of a book on honesty, reads a few words, closes it. Turns her attention to a darker volume on the sins of greed. Gets nearly three pages in before she nudges it incrementally off the edge of the bench on which she's sprawled. It lands with a softened splat, velum pages collapsing under the weight of leather.

The pot of stew has been scrapped clean, though she's discovered that the basin of water and mug of mild-favoured mead never run dry. The spirit nudges at her mind, a wordless identification of magic at work, yet again. The furs have been rearranged. The books alphabetized and sorted by subject readability. She's uncovered a basket of thread and needles and yarn, and suspects that this version of herself is capable of things like _embroidery_. She's simply not interested.

She turns her active mind inward, toward the spirit who shares her space. _Hello_, she thinks, filling herself up with feelings of warmth and welcome and friendly curiosity. The spirit sends warmth back, but little else. Jane sighs a frustrated sigh. She has an entirely separate and unique being in her head, and she can barely communicate with it at all. She's reminded of the blank, open civility of tourists and foreign exchange students. Of herself when she had tried to wander alone through the streets of Tromso. Brilliant, vibrant minds trapped in a cage of awkward, unnatural words that don't say what you want them to say. Isolation and vulnerability warring with self-preservation for control. She's sympathetic to the spirit, but also frustrated. She's lonely, and terribly bored, and full to bursting with ideas and possibilities. The things a spirit from between dimensions might know are temptingly close to her, and Jane has always been hungry for the secrets of the universe.

The spirit, discerning her feelings if not her meaning, has drawn closer. It perches on the edge of Jane's sense of self, hovering just beyond the reach of her understanding. Like a child reaching for a cookie jar on a shelf that is just too high, Jane stretches and strains her thoughts. She's struck again by the incongruity of a being that can share the space inside her head, without intruding upon her thoughts or her actions. Wonders how the neurobiology of it is possible, if the spirit's presence is biological at all. All the while, it is there, a spectator to the conscious parts of her mind.

And Jane wonders. Wonders what might happen if she simply opens herself up and invites the spirit in. Really in. Into her memories and her perceptions and her sense of self. It feels like a dangerous idea. It glitters and shines with jagged, sharp edges. She could lose herself. The spirit is something unimaginably powerful. It might be entirely beyond her comprehension. It could be pretending at friendly helpfulness, waiting for just this chance to hijack her brain completely.

This body isn't hers though. This brain is locked in flesh and blood and bone, bound to this plain. Whatever is _her_, is traveling through space-time, jumping from one dimension to the next. Without a brain. Without a body. What she's thinking of must go deeper than biology then. It would be inviting the spirit to stare directly into her soul, if that's what she might dare to call it.

Jane swallows hard. Stares around the empty, door-less tower room. She contemplates the idea. Is fascinated by it. By the danger in it. By the idea of testing out the boundaries of herself. The possible consequences spool across her mind, tantalizing in their meanings. In what could be lost and what could be gained.

"Jane?" a woman's voice calls, as if from far away, "Jane, my child, are you asleep or are you awake?"

She feels the spirit tap a frenetic beat against her brain stem as she swims up into awareness, drawn by a siren call she can't quite name. She wants to answer the question. Wants her voice to reply in warm answer to this woman, this precious, beloved woman, her mother.

Jane opens her eyes. The woman is tall. Tall and beautiful. Her hair is a cascade of rich mahogany. Her eyes are clearest aquamarine. Her face, though not young, is proud and bold and oddly fierce. Her body, though obscured by a rich, fur-lined cloak, seems slender and strong. There is no way this woman is related to Jane, so plain and human in comparison. This woman, thinks Jane, looks like she belongs in the halls of Asgard. This woman, whose magic reaches down into the heart of her and pulls feelings and desires out.

"Jane, dearest?" she murmurs, her voice soft now that she's seen clarity in Jane's eyes. She kneels down with the sort of elegant grace that will forever put Jane's straightforward movements to shame. Her hands, slim and pale and smooth, catch Jane's fingers and hold. "Are you quite well, little dove?" she asks, her voice almost musical in its tone.

"Aren't I more of a sparrow?" she hears herself ask, her mind struggling through the fog of desire to please this woman, all the while slamming against the wall of her memories of the last strange, beautiful woman she'd met.

"A sparrow!" the woman exclaims, "So plain, my Jane?"

Jane frowns. "It seems more honest," she whispers with a childlike earnestness.

"A dove is the most honest creature in existence," the woman replies. "She is sweet-tempered and demure and soft-spoken. But she carries all the hope in the world upon her strong wings."

There's alarm bells in Jane's head, feminist theory classes smashing headlong into the woman's gentle words. She's fighting with the ideas, snarling at the words and the picture they paint. She's also charmed. She wants to be a dove, if it means this woman will love her more. She's being torn in two, and can't tell her own thoughts apart from the ones the woman wants her to think. At the edge of it all, the spirit is helplessly looking in, tapping frantically at the part of her that has already acknowledged that the woman is using magic of some sort.

"So, my dove," the woman continues, "Tell your mother what you have done these past days."

"You," Jane struggles, the noise in her head rising to cacophonous levels, "You are not my mother."

The woman freezes, her eyes shining like cold stone as her fingers squeeze tight upon Jane's hands, "What did you say?"

There's a panicked moment when a part of Jane's mind recognizes that this is dangerous ground. That she should never have said words like those. "I mean," she flounders, "I mean I cannot imagine how such a plain thing as I could have a mother as lovely and strong as you. It doesn't seem possible."

"Does it not?" the woman replies, her soft, strawberry lips pulling thin and hard.

Jane's breath catches in her throat. The desire to please this woman is a heady thrum in her veins now, pounding through her blood. It's too loud for her to think or be clever. She wants to be honest. To tell this woman everything. To bare her soul. "I'm not your Jane," she hears herself say. "I'm from another world. I can't be her. I can't, not even for you! Not even though I want to!" There's a tremor in her voice, a hint of tears, though whether they are for real emotions or false ones, she couldn't say.

The woman's expression goes cold. "Other worlds?" she murmurs, "Where have you gotten ideas such as this?"

Jane struggles against the heavy weight of the magic. "I," she sputters, "I want… I am… I…" Her breath is coming in anxious puffs, her eyes darting, unable to focus. "Stop using magic, " she pleads, "Please stop. Please. Just… stop."

The woman's eyes narrow. "What magic?" she asks softly, suspicion in her voice.

"The magic," Jane gasps, "The magic. You're making me feel… want." She struggles for a ragged breath. "I don't want – "

"No," the woman searches her eyes, "You don't want." Her tone is evaluating, almost clinically detached. All affection has slipped away. "You've never even noticed my magic before," she says, half to herself, "Why now, dear Jane? What has changed? Who has told you about other worlds? Who has spoken to you of magic?"

She doesn't really need to protect him. She doesn't even owe him anything. She knows this. It still feels a little like betrayal when the witch rips his name from her lips. "Loki," she cries, "It was Loki."

The woman goes pale. "Loki," she whispers, aghast, "But how? Why? What would he want in a pathetic creature like you?" She stands, turns from Jane. She paces the room in short, quick steps.

The magic dribbles out of Jane's mind, and she's left feeling like she's been robbed. There are tears in her eyes, and a hard, pulsating pain the spirit is moving slowly over as it folds itself around her. "What do _you_ want with me?" Jane says, her voice a hoarse whisper. She's slipped off the edge of the bench now, curled in upon herself to hold in the hurt.

The woman pauses, turns to Jane. There's a taunt frown upon her lips, "I suppose it doesn't matter now." She stares down at her, "Your parents had an agreement with me. They went back upon it. There is always some use for a princess."

The laugh that escapes Jane's lips is tight and disbelieving, "I'm a princess?" She shakes her head, runs a trembling hand through her hair. "Of course I'm a princess. Of the fairest kingdom, I bet?"

The woman's gaze goes distant. "Yes," she says slowly. "He wants to rule," her eyes narrow, considering the new idea taking root within her. "I had not considered that." There is a pregnant pause as the enchantress sorts through newer options. "There is," she breathes, "Always some use for a princess." Her gaze has fixed back upon Jane with hawk-like intensity. "Power," she muses, "It is always about power. How much one can control."

Jane shivers. The spirit pulls itself in closer, soothing balm to psychic wounds. There is a long moment in which Jane refuses to look up at the woman before her. It passes in silence. She looks up. The woman is gone. A more violent tremor runs through her still.

* * *

For a very long time, Jane does not move. She nestles inside the dark safety of the spirit's presence. She trembles against the cold and the shock and the fact that she's been essentially mind_-_raped by some sort of fairy tale witch. And she's a princess. Who will probably now be used as some sort of bargaining chip. And while being handed over to Loki is entirely good for her, since it will mean the instant evacuation of this suddenly horrific rather than boring world, she suspects that it will be less ideal for the Jane she will leave behind. The Jane who does embroidery. Then again, is there really so much difference between being the prisoner of an enchantress or the prisoner of a sorcerer?

She doesn't want an answer. Not really.

The spirit curls in around her mind, sending soothing ripples through her. _Why protect me?_ Jane thinks at it. _Why try to soothe me? Why bother making it better? Why do you care? _The spirit grows still, feels through the questions, and understands nothing still. But it is so close, and so warm, and so full of what Jane has suddenly decided is the essence of _safe_. And she's just felt what it feels like to have an alien will imposed across her own. And it came from outside. With magic. That the spirit can sense.

She doesn't think about it. Not really. She's already decided anyway. She takes a deep breath and then tears her conscious mind open, lays every part of her bare. She throws out every memory, every jagged, broken-glass emotion, every piece of experience she has. And for an moment, she thinks that the spirit doesn't want this. Still doesn't understand. But how can they communicate until they have some common set of experience to build a language up from? How can they relate until one of them truly sees the other?

Besides which, she's always been impulsive. Part of her just wants to see what will happen. What the spirit will do. If she loses all control. If the spirit takes over, well, then that's the price of science. This choice is her choice at least. A sliver of control over a life she's lost all sight of. The moment stretches thin, and maybe the spirit tastes her desperation, her need, the depth of her hurt. From this, from the elf woman, from the reality where she's the bad guy terrorist, from her orphan status, from Thor's seeming betrayal. From Loki. From herself.

The spirit dives in. Like a shooting star, it plunges down and in and through. It slips through her memories, tastes her emotions, dances with her conscious thoughts and her subconscious wants. It sees through her eyes, feels through her fingers, smells through her nose. It gathers it all up, drinks it all down, devours every part of her with a hunger for understanding that Jane _knows_ because she feels it herself. And its beautiful and its joyful and its like finding a safe haven. Someone who understands (really understands) what you have done, who you have been, because they have been there, somehow, themselves. Standing in your shoes.

And then it is over. And Jane sleeps.

* * *

_In the dream, she's not Jane Foster. She doesn't think like Jane Foster. She doesn't feel like Jane Foster. She isn't even shaped like Jane Foster. In the dream, she forgets who she is, because she doesn't need to be anyone. _

_There is a presence among them. Something not like them. Something sputtering-drowning in this ocean-void. Eternity is a long-distant time-place outside of the worlds this one can survive in. But it has no home to go to. It has a bitter green sadness. Alive in a way that they are not. But it does not value this fact. It does not understand them. It cannot hear their sweet-strange music without physical ears to hear with. It is blind-deaf-dumb in this place. But it is aware still. More aware than it should be. It leaks magic across the place, seeing into spaces it should not see. Worlds it does not belong to. It is dangerous, this thing and the reckless, senseless actions it takes. It thinks it has nothing to lose. _

_It strays too close to a violent purple edge on the corner-angle-intersect with its own world. It has so much to lose! But they cannot save it. Only mourn it. That poor, brilliant, bitter green. _

* * *

Jane wakes slowly, surfacing in the shallows of consciousness and lingering there for as long as she can. When she finally opens her eyes, there is daylight streaming in. She's cold, very cold, cheek pressed to bare stone. She pulls herself up on her hands, gazes blinkingly into the light. She yawns. Her stomach growls. Her fingers twitch. There's an itch on her right shoulder.

The spirit nudges a memory of breakfast with Darcy and Eric toward her. They are laughing, joking, eating waffles. Darcy teases her. Eric smiles. She's happy. Happier than she knows. There's a tightening in her throat. She smiles weakly. "Good morning to you too," she whispers aloud.

Louder words would echo in this space. Hers simply drift against the walls and collect in the corner, snowdrifts of sound. The air is chill, and the fire has gone quite out. Its early still. Beyond the worn window cloth, there is a strangely normal chorus of bird song.

The stillness and the calm are shattered by an ominous, creaking moan. The sound of metal grinding upon rusted metal comes muffled from below. Jane stares down at the solid stone floor, uncertainty in her eyes. The spirit presses upon the idea of magic. Jane scrambles to her feet. She watches the floor warily, the distant sound of thudding and creaking doors filling her ears. The stones of the floor shift, a small patch melts and transforms. A trapdoor of ancient wooden beams and rusted metal emerges. It begins to open, catches against some sort of pin with a groan. Frustrated curses filter through the dark-shadowed crack between wood and stone. The pin mechanism disappears as completely as if it had never existed at all.

The door flies open, and though she knows (she already knows) who it is, she jumps just a little at the sudden noise and movement. Loki glowers up at her, taking the last few steps with sulking, slow steps, so that he takes his time claiming his full height, towering above her. His expression is venomous, brow furrowed and eyes sharp with fury. "This world," he spits, "This entire world is mad. Absolutely, entirely without sense."

"I'm a princess," she offers, "Locked in a tower. Like a fairy tale." He stares at her with a stale sort of indifference. "I supposedly do embroidery," she finishes. There's a crack in the mask. It isn't a smile, but it isn't a smirk, either. And she's forgotten again that they are not friends on a shared surprise adventure. That making him smile is not a goal to achieve. That her voice has the same brittle, frustrated tone as his is also not quite beyond her notice.

"Embroidery?" he mocks, "Try a swamp of unforgiving damp filled with giant, poison toads."

Jane shrugs, "I had to read books made from animals."

"I had to fend off an invisible leopard."

"Two words," she smirks, "Chamber pot."

"Dragons," he counters, "Three of them." He reaches around the black leather armour he wears and shakes the dust and cobwebs from the emerald cloak he wears. The bottom half has been left blackened and charred, burnt edges trailing into soot.

Jane pauses, considers the creatures in the book of fantastical beasts. "Really, dragons?" she asks, "Like, really real dragons?" He levels her with an impatient glare. She swallows her excitement, "I'd love to see a dragon."

"No," he replies, the word curt and sharp, "You would not." He gives the cape a second, pointed shake.

"I'm being held captive by a mind-raping enchantress," she says finally, feeling like the spirit in her head is holding her hand.

He raises his head at that one. Bright green eyes consider her, "So it was you who sent that one after me, was it?"

"After you?" Jane stares at him incredulously, "She made it sound like I was a cow to be traded, or something."

"Right," he gives her a tight-lipped frown, "I suspect violence and attack spells might be considered business dealings on some worlds."

Jane shrugs, "What was I supposed to do?" His face tells her nothing. "I didn't even know when you'd show up. And did I mention the mind-raping? That is not a fun sort of magic, you know."

He looks at her, expression still unreadable, "I do know, actually."

Jane can only meet that with silence. She gazes around the tower room, considers that it probably is rather comfortable compared to swamps and fights and dragon fire. "How did you know where to find me?" she asks suddenly, the question crossing her mind suddenly.

He turns his back to her, walks to the windows and shoves the makeshift curtain out of the way. "I can always find you," he says so quietly she almost needs to strain to hear him, "And I will always come for you."

"Unless we find one of those better worlds of yours," she parries.

He straightens, still facing the expanse of forest and sky. "Unless we find a better world," he agrees, his tone disappointingly neutral. There's a heavy pause in which Jane almost wonders at the way he says the words. It doesn't sound like agreement. "Are you expecting someone?" he asks suddenly, turning the eyes that are so very green in this world in her direction.

"Not unless you didn't kick that witch's – "

"She's dead," he interrupts. Jane feels her eyes widen slightly. "Just to be clear," he continues. He turns back to the window, "I believe you have a prince on your doorstep."

"A prince?" Jane parrots in disbelief, her feet taking her to the window in the space of seconds, even though it lands her squarely at Loki's side.

There is, in fact, a thoroughly confused-looking man sitting astride a magnificent white charger below. "Ah!" he calls up, his expression lightening significantly at the sight of Jane, "I had near despaired at locating the beauteous, long-lost princess of Trellafoil!"

"Beauteous?" Loki snorts.

There's no second thought spared when she angles her elbow and jabs it squarely at his ribs. She ignores the faint growl that escapes him and stares instead down at the blonde-haired man below. "Um," she licks her lips, "I think I'm her?"

The prince gazes up at them, confusion slipping back into his eyes. He raises a hand to shield the sun from his eyes. "You think you are she?" he repeats, "You are not certain?"

Jane tilts her head in consideration. "No," she calls back, "I am certain, actually."

There is a pause, "No, you are certain you are not she, or no, you are certain you are she?"

"He really is not the brightest, is he?" Loki murmurs, tilting his head closer to hers.

"Be nice," she mutters back, "He's come all this way. And his heart's probably in the right place."

"Somewhere in his chest cavity, I suppose." Jane turns her head to meet his gaze. He shrugs, "And, really, why would you even suggest that I be nice? Nice is not something I do."

Jane crosses her arms, "Seriously? You're going to be like that?"

"Now I have reason to be decidedly not nice," he continues, a smirk playing across his lips, "Just to prove my point."

Jane narrows her eyes, "Are you for real? That's just," she shakes her head as she searches for the right word, "Childish." She ignores the way his smirk melts into an actual, amused smile and stares back down at the prince and his beautiful, white horse.

"I'm certain I am the princess," she calls down.

"That is wonderful!" the prince calls up, "For I am here to rescue you!"

Jane bites her lip, "I, uh, hate to tell you, but the enchantress is already dead."

The prince furrows his brow and shifts in his saddle. "I do not understand," he shouts, "I was told there was a princess who needed to be rescued. I rescue you and I can marry you and become the king."

Loki shifts beside her, lets an impatient sigh escape his lips, "She no longer requires your services. She has already been rescued." He tilts his head to catch her eyes with his own, "Quite effectively, I might add."

Jane rolls her eyes. The prince's stallion stamps its hooves. The prince is silent for a long moment. "But," he begins, "You are a sorcerer, are you not?"

Loki smirks darkly, "I am."

The prince shifts in his saddle again. "Then," he angles his head back to Jane, "Then could I not rescue you from this foul sorcerer?"

The ripple of laughter escapes her before she can help it. Her fist raises to her lips, cutting off the sound, but its far too late. Loki has rounded on her, emerald eyes flashing dangerously. "Foul?" he snarls. She shrugs helplessly, laughter escaping in smothered bursts. He glares daggers out the window, down at the prince. "I assure you, she does not need saving any longer."

"Are you quite certain?" the prince shouts, "Because I am quite good at defeating foul sorcerers!" He pauses, "I have references!"

Jane can't help the laughter now. She glances helplessly up at Loki. "I can't," she gasps, "I can't even…" She sputters, "He has references!"

"I fail to see what is so amusing," Loki replies flatly, "The boy is going to throw his life away attempting to rescue you from me, when I am who you want to be with, if you ever wish to leave this forsaken world."

Jane stifles her laughter. "Right," she says, struggling to hold her composure, "Of course." She leans slightly out the window, "I'm fine. Really, I don't need rescuing anymore."

The prince stares up at her suspiciously. He looks from her to Loki. "He has rescued you?" he inquires, "And you wish to be rescued… by him? A sorcerer?"

Jane nods, choking back her laughter, "Yep. Yes. It's fine. Don't worry. We're all good."

"You are," the prince has reverted to confusion, "Good?"

"Yes," Jane replies firmly, "We're good."

"So you intend to marry him?"

The shock nearly sends Jane out over the window's ledge. Her laughter completely evaporated, she stares down at the prince with comically wide eyes, "What?"

The prince stares up at her, uncertainty creeping vividly across his face, "He who rescues you is to marry you. He will be king, should he return you to your rightful throne in the grand castle of Trellafoil."

Jane can only continue to gape at the prince, "You want me to marry him?"

Beside her, Loki gives a final exasperated sigh. "I am very quickly tiring of this," he begins, "What, exactly," he demands, "Would it take to convince you to leave?"

The prince's stallion shuffles, and the prince nervously passes the reins from one hand to another as his eyes flash between the two figures in the tower window. "A kiss," he cries, "A kiss I can believe."

Jane has enough time to blink in incredulity at the idea of Loki's lips on hers. Then all incredulity is washed away by the absolute reality of his bright green eyes fixing upon her. The colour may vary, but the predatory nature of his stare is fixed in her memory, and it freezes her in place for the second it takes for his hands to settle upon her upper arms and pull her close. She feels her wide-eyed stare dissolve into something softer, but no less surprised, and then his mouth is on hers.

At first, it is just a brush of his lips across hers, feather-light and barely-there. There is an instant where she actually believes that this is all there will be, that she's out of the woods. Her lips part just a fraction in relief. Then his lips are back on hers. Hard enough to be real, and she suddenly can't remember the last time she's been kissed. Not since before the whole ordeal with Malekith, at least. And that is, itself, a lifetime ago. Her hands flutter uncertainly in the air until her fingertips suddenly scatter across the smooth leather of his armour. There, they lock instinctively into the crease between the front panel and the shoulder plates.

His tongue flicks across her lower lip, and there's a part of her that wants to step away and really, really just _hit_ _him_ as hard as she can. Preferably across his smug face. But there's another part that's turned into something like trembling, goose-bumped jelly, and that part literally sighs into the kiss. Its just a train wreck after that, because his tongue is sliding across hers and his lips are demanding things from her that she wasn't aware that she could give. His arms have snaked around her, pulling her flush with his body. One hand is fisted into her hair, fingers entwined with her curls, and tugging just the slightest bit in a way she didn't know she liked until really, right this moment.

Then he is pulling away, and it must be just absolute, years-of-being-single lust that has her lips pressing back into his and starting it all over again. The pressure and heat and hunger are a world all on their own, and she doesn't want to go back to any other. She just wants this. This give and take, this hungry desperation, this clever tongue sliding across hers.

The prince sitting astride his white charger clears his throat. The kiss ends. The real world returns, and their lips inch away in sudden, incremental jerks, as if they are fighting gravity. Jane closes her mouth, opens her eyes, and edges out of his slowly-releasing hold. Her back so stiff its painful, she risks a look up at him. It isn't a smug smirk she sees, but a startled, thinly-veiled wildness. As if he has just been haunted or electrified, or perhaps both. And just as soon as she has cataloged it, it's been hidden away beneath a mask of indifference.

"I believe you," the prince says, his voice echoing up to them, though the tone is almost painfully soft.

"Right," Jane gasps, looking everywhere else but at Loki.

"Time to go?" he offers, his voice uncharacteristically husky.

"Yeah," she breathes, her eyes accidentally crossing paths with his. They are such a bitter green…

Jane's breath catches in her throat. She remembers a dream. A new dream, but also familiar. And she understands it. "You," she whispers, "You lied." Her brain feels like its lit up with Christmas lights, the spirit suddenly brushing up against her and staring out through shared eyes. "You said they pushed you," she hears herself accuse, the words coming from a place that might not be entirely herself as she has known it, "But you fell. You ended up in his realm all on your own."

His eyes go wide, his mouth opening ever so slightly. But he's already willed the magic into action. They are already gone.


	11. Chapter Ten

_**Chapter 10**_

Jane takes a shuddering breath, her awareness slipping quickly and quietly into yet another body that isn't really her own. She's standing, staring into a mirror. Her upper lip is stained crimson. The lipstick has fallen from her hand, its tip smearing softly upon the tiled floor below. "Oh!" cries someone behind her, "I wouldn't want to use that now!"

Jane blinks, and the world comes fully into focus. There's a jostling group of four younger women at her side, staring into the mirror over sinks clogged with paper towel and abandoned drinks. She smoothes her lips together and moves away, leaves the lipstick where its fallen. A pair of giggling twenty-somethings brushes past her, excusing themselves with tittering laughter and drunken smiles. Jane inches out of the crowded bathroom, and peers into the darkened world beyond.

The music is too loud, the swirling, coloured lights too wild. She's not the type to frequent nightclubs. Never was. But at the moment, she's almost thankful that she's found herself at a bar. There are a thousand things on her mind. The spirit is having some sort of fit in her head about Loki being the creature who invaded the void. The creature they had mourned. The creature who had impossibly survived in the space between spaces, peeking into worlds in a way he should not have been able to. It's all background noise to Jane, though. She has bigger problems. Like, the kiss, for instance. Heaven help her, _the kiss. _

She weaves her way through the crowd that has collected around the bar, her fingers already on her purse. She slips past a couple whose eyes are for each other alone, and eases herself onto the bar stool beside them. The bartender eyes her from where's he's mixing a series of vodka cocktails, apparently willing to take her order despite the crowd around her. She casts around the corners of her brain for a moment. She needs something stronger than wine. "Whatever those are," she calls out, "Make it a double."

The drink arrives with a slice of lime and a tiny straw that she immediately pulls from it. She tilts back the glass, and then tilts back her head. She lets the sweet liquid flow over her tongue and down her throat. She swallows reflexively and continues to drink in large, shaking gulps. She wants to forget. Wants to get herself to the point where that sudden and inexplicable lapse in judgment is nothing more than a hazy dream. Except she doesn't want that. She wants to remember that kiss. The way it set her blood on fire. The way it made the entire world narrow down into nothing but sensation. The way her thousand and one unending thoughts and concerns and anxieties collapsed down to nothingness, entirely irrelevant in a world where something could be that perfect.

Jane puts the emptied glass down with a clunk upon the bar. The bartender is still hovering before her, waiting for the money. She pulls out a twenty. "Another one," she nods, her eyes desperately wide. The bartender shrugs and accepts the offered bill. He takes three other orders besides and then sets another glass before her. Jane runs a hand through her hair, pulling out a handful of pins with it. Chagrined, she dumps them into her purse and grabs the glass. It quickly follows on the heels of the first. It doesn't matter how the kiss made her feel. It was a kiss that should never have happened. One does not simply go making out with psychopathic murderers who attempt to take over your planet. Especially not when said psychopathic murderer also happens to be an alien who can turn their arm into a blade of ice. It's just not done.

There's a wild smile on Jane's lips as she sets down the glass. She feels nothing yet, only shaking disbelief in her own actions. She locks the bartender in her sights. "Jane!" a familiar voice cries in her ear, "You made it to the bar!"

Jane turns in her seat to smile weakly at Darcy. Her hair is done up in a complicated little twist, her eyes shadowed in purple and sparkles. "Hey!" she calls, "We need shots down here!" She smiles at Jane, "I'm thinkin' tequila. Thoughts?"

"My thoughts are that sounds like a terrible idea," Jane shouts into Darcy's ear, "But if you're paying…"

Darcy pulls away as a devious smirk blossoms across her lips. "Jane," she says, "That is what I've been waiting for you to say all night."

The bartender pulls closer, wary eyes on Jane's empty glass. "Tequila, my good man," Darcy shouts in a self-important tone. She shakes her head, laughing, "And you better bring the salt and lime," she adds in her normal tones, "I really can't see Jane getting it down any other way."

He leans closer to her and says something into her ear that only widens Darcy's smile. "Well," she begins, her tone bordering on coy before it drops lower than Jane can hear. Jane rolls her eyes, shaking her head with fondness. Watching this Darcy is making her miss her best friend in the worst way. She hasn't exactly had all that many female friends. Never had anyone help with her makeup or share gossip or talk about boys. Until Darcy.

The bartender gives Darcy a wink as he pours the liquor, swift hands balancing lime slices on the shot glass rims, a salt shaker appearing as if by magic before them. Darcy grins as he moves off to take other order. "He's cute," she comments lightly.

"He likes you," Jane corrects, "You think any guy who likes you is cute."

Darcy considers her shot glass for a moment. "Nah," she says finally, "Thor was cute and he didn't even see me."

Jane's head turns instantly, the smile on her lips evaporating, "What?"

Darcy sighs, her fingers running over the shot glass as she picks it up. "I know we don't talk about him," she says quietly, "But I think you need to. Its been almost a year, Jane. He's not coming back."

Jane stares at Darcy for a long moment, her brain running frantically over the possibilities. Her mouth has suddenly gone dry, and she realizes with shock that she's been sitting here with every intention of getting drunk when she has no idea how things are in this world. And that's dangerous. She should know this, after the last worlds she's wandered into. She takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly.

Darcy is staring at her with luminous eyes, "I'm sorry," she says suddenly, "I know you don't want to hear this. But I can't just watch you miss out on life waiting for a guy who might never come. And, face it, Jane. The guy is immortal. Ten, twenty years is like… nothing for him. You could be old before he comes back. You could miss… well, everything." She exhales a shattered breath, "I mean, here we are, in a nightclub, surrounded by guys, and you're sitting here alone at the bar." She looks down at the shot in her hand, "That's not right, Jane. It isn't fair."

Jane feels her gaze lock with Darcy's. "And if he came back tomorrow?" she asks, "You still wouldn't think he's right for me, would you?"

Darcy's head falls, "You make it sound so blunt." She's quiet for a long moment before she looks up, "But, yeah. I still wouldn't." She lifts the lime slice and squeezes it with nervous fingers.

Jane sighs quietly, catches hold of Darcy's free hand and tugs on it gently. "You should have said something before," she says, "Because you're right. You're completely, totally right. He is… definitely not what I need. I mean, different worlds. Worlds!" She laughs, frees Darcy's hand. "So you're right. We're here, tonight, in a bar…"

Darcy's smile grows. "And you're already drunk," she adds.

Jane nods, "And we're in a bar, surrounded by guys." And her brain is whirring away, alcohol muddling her thoughts, but she's thinking.

"Guys you should look at," Darcy adds, "And maybe even dance with."

Jane picks up her shot glass, eyes the amber liquid within it. "And maybe even kiss," she says, thinking that maybe, maybe she can erase the feeling of someone else's lips on hers.

Darcy smiles at her, "That's the spirit."

"Alright, then," Jane announces, the world feeling just the tiniest bit fuzzy, "Here is to looking at guys. Guys who aren't aliens."

Darcy smiles her broadest smile, "Here, here!"

* * *

There's another shot, and she has a vague impression of a pink drink with a purple umbrella in it, though that could easily have been Darcy's. Then there is a pair of guys with their elbows braced on the bar and their mouths saying something about dancing with the prettiest girls in the bar. And Jane smiles at Darcy, who's smirking back at her with eyes that scream, "I told you so." Unless she says that out loud. That could have happened too.

In any case, she's on the dance floor, and the music that is too loud is pounding through her veins, setting the beat of her heart. The coloured lights that are too wild are making her smile. There are hands on her, warm and damp with sweat, that are making her feel something like alive. And maybe she can't quite remember her name, or the reason she's done this. But it all seems like a really good idea from where she's at now. Nothing is wrong and everything is soft around the edges and she can see Darcy with her hands in the air, dancing too close to her guy from the bar.

The hands on her body shift, and a warm breath gusts past her ear, "Is this alright?"

She looks into his eyes, disappointingly brown and nervous. "It's fine," she shouts, eases her body closer to his, "It's good." He smiles, adorably human and sweet. He's only a few inches taller than her. He's not tall enough. Not really. She likes it when a man towers over her a little. It's not like it takes much, after all, as short as she is, even in heels.

"Would you," he falters, his damp hands scrunching the patterns beaded into her black dress, "Would you like a drink?"

She nods, even though she knows she doesn't need any more alcohol fueling this haze. Of course, she also knows that isn't what he wants. His hand hovers, presses, hovers again, on the small of her back. She wishes he'd just man up. Grab hold of her and kiss her. Be the predator.

"So, what do you do?" the man asks her, shifting awkwardly in his grey dress shirt and jeans.

Jane shrugs, "I'm a scientist."

"Yeah?" he nods, "That's cool. Real cool. What do you study?"

The words are on the tip of her tongue, _the hypothetical topology of spacetime, with a major focus on the practical applications of Einstein-Rosen bridges_. But she knows better than that. Knows the awkward conversation that is going to follow if she says those magical words. So she doesn't. She shrugs instead, "Doesn't matter." It does matter. What she studies is everything. Its who she is. But she isn't trying to be herself tonight. She isn't looking for a boyfriend. She doesn't even live in this dimension. Not really. She just wants to erase the taste of… her brain stutters. The spirit is hibernating somewhere down the length of her spine, irritated with her for drowning out common sense, but its willing to supply her with an instant playback of just how that kiss made her feel. "Damn you," she whispers just under her breath. She feels it push back with a frustrated sort of nudge, as if its telling her it all serves her right.

"Did you say something?" the man at her side shouts into her ear a little too loudly.

"You said something about a drink," she shouts back, entirely too sober after all.

He obliges, sipping awkwardly at a rum and coke while she downs the vodka-cranberry just a little too fast. They're standing just off to the side of the bar. He watches her set the emptied glass back down, puts his down beside it, still half-full. A sweaty hand lands back on her hip, and he crowds just a little too close.

Except that she wants this. She wants to plaster over her memories, replace the perfect with the imperfect so she doesn't need to acknowledge the existence of the former. Her brain is working too hard again. She just needs to close her eyes, to tilt her head up the tiniest degree. There's barely a height difference working against her here.

"Did you know," she hears her own voice say, "That the consumption of alcohol actually does have an effect on how attractive we find people?"

He laughs, his tone a little husky. "Sure," he says, "But I've had barely anything, and I still think you're the hottest girl in this place."

Jane laughs nervously, the sound tight in her throat. "That's, yeah," her eyes flicker between him and the crowded dance floor beside them, "Kind of you."

"Hey," he begins, pressing the hand on her hip to ease her away from the bar, "I'm a kind guy. I'd, uh, be really kind to you."

"We should dance some more," she insists. His hands catch hold of her more possessively now as he leads her back into the mess of bodies. He holds her closer, and she closes her eyes.

The music is still there, pounding through her veins. The lights are still wild. The lyrics to the songs are still as lurid. The alcohol is still clouding her brain. She can get lost in the noise and heat and movement again. She can forget. She can live in this moment, with this human body against her. Its what she wants.

"Excuse me," she hears the words, muffled in the noise. She feels the man who holds her loosen his hold, demand something of whoever is excusing themselves. She takes the opportunity and twists just enough to escape the sweaty, too-warm hands. She loses herself in the crowd. This, then, is what she wants. Freedom. Escape. To run away from the world she knows and what it all means.

The music pauses, the beat drops, and she's lost in the movement and the sound and the swirl in her skull. She's going to pay for this, she thinks, but for now, this is exactly right. This and the hands that have slid onto her hips as if they have always belonged there. The body behind her pulls her close. The hands run up her sides, up her arms, and then back down. They paint her body in cool stripes. Hands that don't sweat. A man who isn't nervous. A man who's tall enough to make her feel protected. And, she thinks, licking her lips deliriously as he pulls her around in his arms, dangerous enough to be a predator.

Her eyes flicker open. She knows, even in the moment before she sees, that she's the fool. That kiss is branded on her soul. She'll never escape it. She knows this, even before her gaze meets his mocking blue-green eyes that change with the worlds or the seasons or maybe with his own mercurial moods. "Loki," she snarls, entirely without kindness.

"Jane," he replies as casually as he might greet a passerby, if he was the sort to do that. "Is this, then, what you mortals consider dancing?" Jane grinds her teeth, wrenches a wrist out of his grasp. "It is," he begins, bemused eyes trailing over the crowd, "Intriguing, I suppose." His eyes settles back on her, "Though it isn't surprising one would need to be intoxicated to fully partake. Imagine, dancing with your back turned to your partner. One might never know who they are dancing with."

She hates him. Hates the arrogance in the angles of his face, hates the smug tone of his velvet voice, hates the way his body fits against hers, hates the way she wants to kiss him. Again. As if once wasn't mistake enough. "I'm not doing this," she hisses, pulling herself away from him as fully as the press of bodies around them can allow. She feels the spirit swim to the surface of her mind and peer out of her eyes in mute fascination.

"Not doing what, Jane?" he asks, innocence in his words though it could never be in his tone.

"I'm not ready to go," she says through gritted teeth. "I'm allowed to have some fun. One night off."

"Is that what this is?" he asks, incredulously, "Fun? I can practically smell the intoxication on you."

The spirit nudges her in agreement and pulls up an assortment of scenes and emotions she's felt over the span of the night. She has not, exactly, had fun. "You've made your point," she mutters.

Loki raises an eyebrow at her, eyes wary. "That simply?" he presses.

"Not you," she glares. "And I still mean it. I'm not going. I refuse," she stamps a foot impatiently, "I want a few days off from this stupid world-hopping. I want time to get my head on straight. I want…"

"Fine," he says, his hands lifted ever so slightly against her onslaught.

"Fine?" she repeats, suddenly off-balance.

"Fine. You are only mortal. You need time to recover." He looks at her with eyes that are entirely too reasonable.

"Just like that?"

He tilts his head at her with the look she's come to realize he reserves for her. "Just like that," he replies, his eyes suddenly a shade too blue.

"What will – "she begins, only to have a words snatched away by the sudden turn of his back upon her. She blinks and she's lost him in the crowd. A handful of girls are giving her disbelieving looks. She shakes her head and pushes her way out of the crowd. Back to the bar. Where she patiently orders a bottle of a water, and then a second for the breathless Darcy who emerges to join her.

"Kiss any guys?" she asks as she reaches for the bottle.

"No," Jane replies, "But I danced."

"It's a start," Darcy shrugs. She pauses, looks at Jane with somewhat glossy eyes, "Jane," she stops, sighs, "Listen, I just want you to know that you can do anything. You're the smartest person I've ever met. And this… this thing… this Norway thing. This is just proof. They're finally gonna listen to you now. The world is –"

"Darcy," Jane interrupts, the blood draining from her face, "What do you mean by this Norway thing?"

Darcy smiles, "The Tromso thing. The university paying for you to go. To Norway! It's wild, Jane. Wild."

For a moment, Jane thinks the world is falling out from under her. "Darcy," she says patiently, "What is today's date?"

She catches hold of the bar as Darcy tells her. She stares wide-eyed without seeing. "Darcy," she gasps, "Darcy, what have I done?"

There is a long pause, "Uh, you didn't forget to call Eric, if that's what you're asking. You tried, remember? Nine times? And no answer?"

Jane sags onto the bar stool at her side. "This isn't happening," she mutters. The spirit flutters against her mind, agitation pouring from it. _This is_, she thinks towards it, _I've done this. The night before I left for Tromso, Darcy forced me to go out dancing. Twenty minutes in I dragged her back to the hotel. It was less than a week later when Loki opened the wormhole in New York. Let aliens invade. _The spirit stills within her head before it suddenly leaps into her memories with all the finesse of a ten-year-old cannon-balling into a pool.

"Jane?" Darcy gasps, her hand reaching for Jane's as her body goes terrifyingly slack. For a second, she's helpless in her own mind, control lost as the spirit floods her synapses and travels across every neuron at once.

"I'm fine," she breathes, pulling air into empty lungs. _Don't_, she thinks in a scream, D_o that again. Ever. Not like that. Not without warning. _A wave of something like concerned remorse passes over her. She takes a shuddering breath. She closes her eyes for a long moment. There are more pressing concerns. And they all revolve around Loki, as they always seem to do.

"You're pale as a ghost," Darcy murmurs into her ear, "We should get you out of here."

"He wouldn't do the same thing again," she says, letting Darcy lead her from the nightclub. "He wouldn't. He knows it won't work. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. It wouldn't make sense."

"Jane?" Darcy stares at her with concern in her eyes, "Are you okay?"

"It wouldn't make sense," Jane insists. The spirit is right on her thoughts, shuffling through the new memories it has pulled from her mind and matching them against what it knows itself. Vividly, it shoves the image of Loki elbow deep in the body of the frost giant who is, by all accounts, his biological father, his words echoing in her head. "It doesn't change the ending," she whispers. The spirit slumps against her own thoughts. They reach the same conclusion at the same time.

Jane looks around and is surprised to find them standing outside, at the front of the club. She's lost time, debating with the spirit in her own mind. Dangerous, she thinks to herself. The spirit settles in beside her, a friendly presence. It strikes her rather suddenly that she has no privacy in her own head. No secrets. The spirit hovers impatiently, its presence the reminder she needs about time being just too short.

At her side, Darcy's hands are clasped clammily around her arm, "We should get you back to the hotel."

"No!" Jane exclaims, her eyes opening wide. "I need to get to the airport!"

Darcy swallows audibly, "Jane, you're scaring me. Your flight doesn't leave until four. In the afternoon."

"No," she shakes her head, "It's not… I need to get to Stuttgart." Because if he goes through with this, well, its on her head, then, isn't it? Throwing a fit about having a night off when he's about to go homicidal and start a war. Because if he doesn't think that things can be changed, then she needs to stop him.

"Stuttgart?" Darcy gapes, "What the hell are you talking about? Did someone slip you something in there?"

"No," Jane says, turning to Darcy and channeling every sober ounce of herself into the moment, "I need to go because I need to stop him. I… he isn't stable. Not really. Not… he won't do the logical thing. But I can stop this, Darcy! I can save New York before it ever comes under threat!" Darcy stares at her with scared, disbelieving eyes. "Darcy, I know, if I just make him listen… why would he do it? Why would he willingly end up back in that cage? He just needs to realize…" she trails off. Darcy's hands have closed harder onto her arm, her eyes are wide with concern. "Darcy," she says softly, "I'm sorry." She twists her arm out of her friend's grasp and bolts for the nearest taxi, slamming the door closed behind her and frantically demanding that the taxi driver take her to the airport as fast as possible.

* * *

It's a four hour wait for the first flight to Frankfurt, and even though Stuttgart has its own airport, it's the closest she can get to it from here. She just hopes that Europe's rail systems are as amazing as Eric has advertised over the years. She uses her time to buy all the things she should have packed, too chicken to go back to the hotel now that she's bolted from Darcy's side, blathering like an idiot about things that would make no sense in this world. But then, she was never really talking to Darcy. She was talking to herself and the spirit in her head.

Yeah, she's definitely losing it. The expressions on the early-morning airport staff's faces tell her so.

She sheds the party dress in a washroom, switching it for the pajama pants and tourist t-shirt she's purchased from a tired Asian woman with raised eyebrows. She's going to need something nicer though. Nicer than the party dress. She remembers the files. Read them all a dozen times. Knows the times, the places. It seems so foolish now, the way she committed every word to memory just because it brought her closer to Thor. Thor, who is so very out of the picture now. Now, when she's trying to keep the homicidal half-brother from repeating the same mistakes. She could use the Avengers, she thinks tiredly. Such a shame they'd think she's nuts.

She holds conversations that revolve around memories and feelings rather than words with the spirit living within her skin as she waits impatiently for the plane to fuel. She tries to sleep on the plane ride over. Instead spends most of it explaining the purpose of in-flight entertainment to the spirit. Along with a twenty-minute diatribe on the quality of in-flight food. By the time they've landed, she's well aware that the spirit is simply letting her ramble on in her own head to keep her from exploding with nervous energy.

That said, it's the spirit that chooses the dress. She steps into a store that she can't afford, ignoring the looks the store clerk is giving her "I love Denver" pajamas. She runs a hand over a rack that appears to boast her size. The spirit forces her hand to pause.

She tries it on, only furthering the store clerk's frustrated chagrin when she amicably surrenders her credit card as collateral. It's almost shockingly simple in its straight lines, the light curve of emerald silk over her hip, the sash that ties around the back, leaving flowing trails behind her. "It's beautiful," she whispers, her breath caught in her throat. It shouldn't be true, but he was right when he said it. She really does look good in his colours. "I'll take it," she murmurs, thinking sorrowfully about how much lab equipment two thousand dollars can buy. But it isn't her money. Not really. And she has a world to save. Via an expensive, exclusive party. The spirit hums its approval. She shakes her head and hopes.

By nightfall, she's on the steps of the Staatsgalerie, her hair and makeup done professionally. To her own eyes, she looks faintly ridiculous, but the spirit is practically jumping with joy. According to the images it flashes through Jane's memories, she's perfect. It isn't helping her now, though, as she pleads her case as eloquently as she can to the stern-faced doorman. The spirit nudges her, and Jane warily invokes the names it feeds her. She can't remember having read them, though they were probably there, somewhere, in the deluge of information she had immersed herself in. She's unnerved by the ability of the spirit to pull things from her memories that she herself cannot recall.

But it doesn't matter, because now she's in. Her eyes play over the polished sandstone, the champagne flutes, the elegant dresses that make hers finally look at home. She closes in on the stairs, knows the scene and only hopes that she can keep it from playing out. There are lives on the line. And guards standing in wait. She exhales in frustration, but she'd always known they would be here. She sighs as she kneels just out of the guards' sight and, seizing silk in both hands, tears.

She doesn't need to fake the tears that are rapidly melting her professionally applied mascara. This dress is the loveliest thing she's ever owned, will leave this world's Jane in debt, and she's just destroyed it. The shredded fabric hangs like a tattered sail, catching in her heeled shoes as she stumbles towards the guards. "I, I," she stammers, leveling a tragic gaze at one guard.

His eyes go wide at the sight of her. A vision in green, the train of her dress torn nearly clean off and tears in her eyes. "Fraulein," he whispers in shock, "Geht es dir gut?"

She tumbles closer, bracing her hands on his arms, "He just wouldn't leave me alone," she sobs, "I told him… But I think he'd had too much to drink. He wouldn't… he wouldn't listen…" She trails away, the lie only half told. It's enough to insinuate happenings that have both guards standing straighter.

"He hurt you?" the second guard asks, hand closing on her shoulder in concern.

She nods her head, mute in the face of the lie she's telling.

"Where is he?" the guard holding her demands.

"Down that hall," she breathes, pointing with a hand that shakes with her own nerves. But its convincing enough. The guard holding her leads her up several stairs, helps her settle into a sitting position, and then runs after his partner in search of whichever poor soul they think looks suspicious enough to pin words like assault on. Jane stares bleakly after them for a moment. _Is this who I want to be?_ she asks the spirit. _A liar? Manipulating people?_ The spirit numbly shoves a few images of a ruined New York at her. People with blood and dust and bruises upon their skin. Jane swallows hard. _Of course_, she thinks back, _Thank you_.

She rips the torn bit of silk completely off, raggedly shortening the dress by a foot or so. She sighs again as she stands, lets the wide ribbon drift to the ground beside her. She feels like she's leaving behind more than just fabric. This whole plan is insane. It could be for nothing. He could be doing the smart thing, and simply not be here. She takes the steps on hurried feet, turns the corner and collides with a much taller body.

"Well," he murmurs, elegant hands steadying her at the shoulder, "That was quite the diversion. You really are quite the talented little liar, after all."

For a moment, her brain fails her. She realizes, with a start, that in all her planning and frantic worry, she's never actually figured out what she would say when this moment came. She has no plan to talk him out of this.

"Now, whatever could be so urgent," he continues, his accent lilting gently over his words, "That it would have you appear here, when we both know you should be elsewhere." His eyes drift over her, "And in my colours. Once again." His lips turn up in a smirk, "Unless this is how you apologize."

She slaps him. He deserves it. He deserves more, probably. "I'm here because this is madness," she hisses. She doesn't waste a second on the trace of surprise in his eyes or the flutter of his hand across his cheek. "It's the definition of madness," she continues, "Everyone knows that. You don't keep repeating the same mistakes, expecting a different result."

He tilts his head at her, "Where did you get the idea that I am expecting a different result?"

Jane pulls away from the single hand that still holds her bare shoulder. "Are you serious?" she demands, "You're playing everything in this world the _same way_ you did them in ours? When you know its going to get hundreds, if not thousands of people killed, and, if that doesn't matter to you, lands you back in your pretty little glass cage?"

"Would you have us leave then?" he asks tersely.

"No!" Jane cries. Wide-eyed, she remembers where they are. "No," she repeats, in a hoarse whisper, "I would have us change things. We can do them better. No one has to die. You don't have to end up in a cage. Everyone wins!"

His gaze has gone flat, "That is not an option." He uses the end of his cane to direct her out of his path.

"Have you even considered any other ones?" she snaps, grabbing the cane in her hands and tugging on it until his eyes meet hers.

"Hundreds," he spits, "But I cannot discuss it now." His eyes are a turmoil of blue fire.

"Why?" Jane presses, pulling on the cane again, "Now seems like a great time to me."

"You," he snarls, pulling the cane from her grasp, "Could not be more wrong."

Even as it slides from her grasp, Jane can see the cane melting into something far more dangerous. The scepter, recognizable from a hundred images, and swiftly noted and cataloged by the spirit in her head. She sees him, for an instant, standing before her, regal and dangerous, and then she's pined to the wall behind her by the staff held level between his hands.

"If you believe, even the slightest bit, Jane Foster, that I am entirely in control of my own mind at this moment," he presses in upon her, "Then you are completely, entirely wrong."

Jane stares up into his too-blue eyes and hears the name fall from her lips, though she isn't the one who put it there. "Thanos," she whispers, understanding flowing through her brain as the word leaves her tongue. Her own heart rate spikes, but it's the spirit who's put the name in her mouth. The thoughts it sends her are a tangled snarl of violent purple. Frantic terror runs through her mind and she gasps at the force of it.

She almost doesn't see the tense line of Loki's jaw as he lets the scepter clatter to the floor between them. His hands fall firmly on her shoulders, and they're gone. Gone too fast. And for the first time, Jane think she maybe understands real fear. Then there is the instant in which she understands nothing.


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**Chapter 11**_

_A/N: It wasn't my original plan, but as of the next update, I'll be bumping the rating on this story up to "M." I, uh, kinda feel like I should do it for this chapter, but I know "M-rated" fics don't always pop up on the main page if you aren't like me and immediately change it to show "all." So, consider this your warning. Favourite or alert now, or look under M… I will be incorporating violence, strong language, adult themes, and so on from here on out. _

_Warning for this chapter? Violence and some torture of unloved secondary characters._

* * *

The sound of her sudden, shuddering breath rends the air. Her eyelids flutter open and she stares unseeingly at a grey sky through glass. The world outside is obscured by the transformative effects of raindrops sliding down the window. As her breathing evens out, she can hear the staccato rhythm of the rain as it falls.

"Doll," a gruff voice drawls, "I hate to be the one to interrupt your beauty sleep, but we're here."

Jane raises her head, blinks at the dark interior of the smoke-scented cab. "Here?" she murmurs.

The cabby turns his head to level a sideways look at her, "East Seventh and First. 'Less you've changed your pretty mind."

"No," Jane rushes to say, "This is just fine." She rubs an open palm across her weary eyes, as she reaches for the purse beside her. She pulls away her hand and stares down at the soot black mascara smudged on her skin. She shakes her head silently and focuses on wrestling with the clip mechanism that holds the purse shut. Once opened, she pulls out several rumpled bills and presses them into the cabby's waiting hand.

"You need some change?" he asks, his large body shifting in slow motion as he counts what she's given him.

"It's fine," she replies, her hand already on the door handle. She's eager to escape the acrid, stale-cigarette smoke smell of the cab.

"Thanks," the cabby mumbles, "Have yourself a nice day, little lady."

"I will," she says in a whisper, her discomfort in her throat.

She steps out of the cab and nearly stumbles over the curb in the three inch heels she's only just discovered she's wearing. She gazes down at the black shoes, sweet little bows arching over her toes, and resists her desire to curse at them. They continue to mock her from beneath the flare of her dark grey skirt. She pulls the lapels of the long, wool-blend coat she wears over the bare expanse of her throat, turning her head against the brunt of the cold wind that seems determined to send wayward raindrops down her apparently low-cut neckline.

"Careful there, darling," a man exclaims, offering an arm to her as a second sweeps around her waist. He smiles boyishly at her, liquid eyes twinkling. His trench coat is plastered with the rain, but his tone is light as he inquires about her destination.

"Actually," Jane admits, her voice sheepish and small, "I'm not really sure." His eyes widen slightly, bemusement scrawled across his face. "I'd settle for somewhere dry that serves some decent coffee," she adds.

"Coffee," he quips, "I can do. But only if you take it black. Sophie Lee's always got several dozen customers and no girl to help her. Cream always comes about twenty minutes too late."

"Sounds just fine," Jane replies, fighting her sense of bewilderment as she lets the man lead her into a small café. The spirit remains mute, an alert presence feeling out this world for the things Jane can't.

The man holds the door to the café open, sweeps her inside, and calls to Sophie Lee for two coffees. Fresh, if she's got it.

"If I got it?" a harried-looking woman hollers back. "Shame on you, Frank. You'll give me a bad name."

Jane lets the man ease her soaked coat from her, shakes out the dampened sleeves of the cream-coloured blouse she's wearing beneath. She settles into the booth and lets Frank's chatter fill the air around her as she observes the world outside through the slanting lines of Venetian blinds. "New York," she muses aloud, piecing together the accents and the environment.

"Not your first time, is it?" Frank replies, catching the thread of her thoughts as Sophie Lee delivers two faded mugs of steaming coffee. Black, as promised.

"Not exactly," Jane replies, lifting the coffee to her lips. The liquid scalds her tongue and she startles at the sensation. Coffee slops from the mug, scattered droplets peppering the table's surface. Jane feels her lips turn into a unhappy pout. She sighs and reaches for her purse, digging through it for something akin to a Kleenex or a napkin. Her hand closes around a crinkled bit of paper.

"Hey, now," Frank says softly, "Leave it. A little spilled coffee isn't going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"I heard that!" Sophie Lee shouts across the café, over more than a few patrons' heads.

Frank laughs, the sound warm and full, before he turns his charming gaze back to Jane. She smiles weakly, her fingers anxiously pulling the paper flat, hoping for a clue to whatever it is she's supposed to be doing. The paper is as damp as she is though, and the black ink has begun to run.

"What's that now?" Frank inquires with a nod of his head.

"Address," Jane answers reflexively, "Can't read it though. And a name? Maybe a name."

"Let's see," Frank offers, his hand already across the space of their table, freeing the paper from her nervous fingers. "Well," he begins, staring at the scrawled words, "Looks like an 'L' and maybe…" His gaze flashes up towards her. "If you look here," he gestures with his hand. He shakes his head, "No dice. You won't see anything I'm seeing from this angle." Without a word more, he's swung himself out of the booth and back in, the span of his shoulders filling the space beside her.

The warmth of his body hits her like a tropical breeze, penetrating the grey cloth of his suit as he raises an arm to rest on the seat behind her head. Jane swallows against the growing lump of unease in her throat. "So this here," he points with a finger, the paper smoothed out upon the table before them, "This here is the 'L' and like I was saying, this scrawl here is Seventh Street. And this curling mess of a name, here? Well, you'd have to know the man to read that writing."

Jane lifts her gaze from the paper to Frank's easy smile. The corners of his eyes are crinkled. "And you just happen to know the man," Jane finishes.

"Lucky lady, you are, darling," he says with a lazy shake of his head, "I just happen to be the man's partner in crime." He tilts his head considerately, "In a manner of speaking. We're actually the ones solving the crimes, usually."

"Detectives?" Jane prompts, pushing a soft, styled wave of hair from her face.

"The best in the Lower East Side!" Frank boasts. He pauses, "I'd even say best in Manhattan, but that's maybe a stretch. Lawson's a brat sometimes. Let's his ego get in the way."

"Uh huh," Jane feels a crooked smile cross her lips. "And does Lawson have a first name?"

Frank chuckles deeply, "Most fittin' one you've ever heard. Man calls himself 'Loki' like the trickster god." He shakes his head, fondness written across his face, "Told you he's got a little problem with his ego, didn't I?"

"Loki Lawson," Jane grimaces, "That'd be the 'L' in the note."

"That it would," Frank muses. He bumps his thigh into hers, "Ready to go meet him?"

Jane bites her lip, looks at Frank for a long moment. "Not yet," she says, "Why don't you tell me a little more about him, first?"

Frank's smile widens, his tongue running visibly over his teeth, "Got a thing for stories, lucky lady?"

Jane leans forward just enough that the tip of her nose is within a hairsbreadth of his own, "You've no idea."

The laugh that escapes Frank borders on nervous as he eases back the barest inch. "Well," he says, shaking his head, "There was this one time. Little old lady comes into the office, berates our girl, April, and then marches right on through, all the while demanding that we find her precious pussy cat."

"A cat?" Jane repeats, "The best detectives in Manhattan look for missing cats?"

"If the price is right," Frank nods, "And the price was… well, it was more than right, if you catch my drift." He leans back in the seat, his arm curling slightly more across her shoulders, "Course, she fails to mention the most important part. So when Loki drops the cat in question into her little old lady lap, she gets to shrieking."

"Wrong cat?"

"We could only wish. Turns out it wasn't the cat she was after. It was the cat's stinkin' collar. She's got fifteen grand in diamonds stitched into it."

Jane smiles, "And Loki?"

"Just about loses it on this lady. Asks her what the hell she's thinking, trusting a cat with a small fortune. Lady just looks at him, 'But cats are decent, honest creatures,' she says." Frank shakes his head, "I couldn't tell you why, but I've never seen him laugh so hard as he did right then. Right in her face. Starts spouting off about symbolism and cats in myth and god knows what else."

"Sounds like an educated guy."

"Smartest man I know," Frank admits, a grave sort of admiration on his face, "But his timing is just plain rotten. And the temper. Wish it wasn't so, but that's what you get."

Jane stares into her empty mug, "That's what you get, huh?" Her mind is flooded with him. With the pressure of the scepter against her collarbone, cold metal biting her flesh and crushing against her bones. With the wildness behind his eyes. With the too-blue shade. With the spirit's whisper on her own tongue.

She feels Frank shift beside her, his arm pulling away as if he has sensed her sudden change in mood. "He's the best," he says, all jokes and amusement gone from his voice, "Whatever it is you need. Whatever questions need answering. He can do it."

Jane lifts her eyes to meet his. "Can he?" she asks, her thoughts still a hundred miles away.

"I swear to you, if there's anyone who can, it's him."

She leans back into the booth's hard seat. "Then take me to him," she says finally, the words heavy on her lips.

* * *

Frank leads her up a narrow flight of stairs and down a hall. He braces a hand on a worn-out wooden door. Frosted glass obscures the moving shape behind. "Lawson and Lewis, Private Investigators," he announces. He pushes on the door and it opens with the slow motion of movie theatrics.

"Lewis?" Jane murmurs, "Know any Darcy's?"

Frank's forehead furrows, "Funny thing. My mother always threatened that was what she would've named me if I'd been a girl."

Jane tilts her head, narrows her eyes at his mop of wavy brown hair, "Go figure."

"Mister Lewis," a high, nasal voice cries, "Mister Lawson wants to know if you understand what the words, 'pop out to get a coffee' mean."

Frank shakes his head, droplets of water flying through the hair, "You can tell Lawson I picked up our next appointment. He can blame the hold-up on her."

"Thanks," Jane bites.

Frank turns and gives her an amused half-smile, "He won't say a word, lucky lady. Not to you."

"You'd be surprised," Jane retorts. She lets her gaze drift around their surroundings. The office space is small, crammed with two desks that overflow with papers and grainy, black-and-white photographs. One desk boasts a shiny-looking typewriter. Jane frowns. Two doors sit open, revealing closets overflowing with more stacks of paper. She smooths her hands down over the wet wool of her coat.

"You can leave that over there," the nasal-toned blonde suggests, waving her hand at a coat stand that has almost certainly seen better days.

"I'll keep it," Jane mutters, "But thanks, April."

"She knows my name!" April shrieks, turning on Frank, "You tellin' stories about me again, Frank?" She swats him with the file folder in her manicured hands, "You know I can't stand it when you talk about me. Telling your stories."

Jane rolls her eyes, "Right." She waits for no one before she crosses the cracked tile floor to the only closed door. She grits her teeth and stares through the frosted glass. The handle turns with a screech.

"Right on time, Miss Foster," he says, his voice curling around her like smoke. His feet are up on the desk, his body a languid, charcoal-suited line as he leans lazily back in his chair. She watches him lift his head exaggeratedly slow, eyes staring emerald from beneath the rim of the fedora on his head.

"Been practicing that?" she shoots back.

His lips twist into a smirk as he regards her from his comfortable slouch, "Wouldn't need to."

Jane shakes her head in disbelief, "Could you be serious for, I don't know, five minutes?"

His eyes narrow as he swings his feet up off of the desk. Within moments he's towering over her, the heels doing almost nothing for her diminutive height. "Serious, Jane?" he mutters, "I would think you have had quite enough of me being serious."

"Wait," Frank's voice comes from the outer office, "You know each other?" Jane doesn't need to turn to see his surprise and faint betrayal. "Well, damn," he exclaims, slapping a palm down on a desk, "If I'd known that I wouldn't've said a word, boss. Honest."

She watches a trace of confusion dance through Loki's eyes before he disregards the man completely. His gaze is reserved for her alone. "Or is deadly serious not serious enough for you?" he continues, "Do you have any idea how much danger we were in?"

Jane straightens as much as she can, "I would if you told me!"

"If I told you," he says in a voice like daggers, "I couldn't protect you."

"When did I ever ask you to protect me?" Jane snaps.

"Why do I feel like I'm missing something?" Frank's voice hangs between them.

"Shut it, Frank," April mutters, "Can't recognize a lover's tiff when you see one?"

"Shut up, April," Jane snarls as she turns her head to glare at the blonde. It takes her a moment to process, but she hears the second voice supporting her own. His darker and more violent tone in duet with her own harsh words. The silence that fills her ears afterwards is deafening. She won't look at him. She won't acknowledge this moment or April's words or the heat that has so suddenly turned to chill.

She feels him take the step back. "You have questions," he says, his voice strained.

"I do," she replies, her head still turned away from him. She loathes the thought of taking a single step closer. All she really wants to do is run away. She waits for his footsteps to retreat back behind his desk before she looks at him again, annoyance radiating in her eyes. She reaches behind herself and pulls the door shut, "You could have mentioned, at some point, that all the damage you did wasn't really your fault, you know. You could have said something about Thanos."

Even now, he winces at the name, "And risk the attention?" He turns his head, looks out the window of his office at the city he's condemned in who knows how many worlds, "It would be a lie, in any case."

Jane takes the smallest of steps closer to him, watching shadows play across his face, "I don't understand," she murmurs, "You said you weren't in control."

"I said, I wasn't _entirely _in control," he replies in clipped tones, his gaze still leveled out the window, eyes traveling down the paths left by the falling rain. "I knew what I was doing, Jane. And I did not, strictly speaking, need to make those choices. But they were the best ones available."

Jane freezes. "Two thousand three hundred and twenty-nine people dead was the best choice?" she demands, her voice little more than a ragged whisper, "Ten thousand wounded? Nearly a hundred thousand temporarily evacuated? That was the best choice?"

"Yes," he says softly, "If I had succeeded, then you would have all been safe. For the moment, anyway. If I lost, then the Tesseract went back to Asgard, and all the Realms would be warned. Either way, I bought you all a little time."

Her mouth has gone dry, "All those lives, just to buy a little time?"

He turns his head, gives her a sideways glance, "It could have been much worse. He would have simply leveled it all. You would all have died. And then he would have the Tesseract and the entire universe would be doomed." His voice is dangerously calm, "Would you rather that?"

Jane takes a ragged breath. This information is just too much for her to process. She looks down at the ridiculous little bows on her shoes. "So there is still a threat," she says softly, "Thanos will still come to destroy us. All of us."

"In time. Without the Tesseract, Midgard becomes significantly less important in the scheme of things."

"You bought us time," she repeats, sinking down onto the corner of the desk that so dominates the room. The spirit has fallen still within her brain, its feelings, for once, kept out of her reach. Jane runs a hand through her hair, the styled waves breaking apart between her fingers. "Why aren't we doing something, then?" she demands suddenly, her eyes searching out his. "Why was Asgard fighting a war with the Dark Elves when they should be fighting Thanos? Why isn't SHIELD developing a plan? Why was nothing happening? If we're all in danger…" she trails away, the horrible truth dawning on her, "They don't believe you."

He laughs, a strange, harsh bark that stings her ears. "No," he says finally, his jaw taunt beneath his pale skin, "They do not believe me. And why would they? What reason would they have to trust a liar? Why would they believe, when it is so much easier to lock me away and pretend that I am the only villain in this?"

"Are you?" she asks, her voice strangely soft in her ears. She waits for his eyes to reach hers, dangerous and dark and wild and filled with a haunted and bitter disappointment, "Are you a villain?"

His lips curl into a violent smirk. "You don't need to doubt that," he replies in a voice dripping in sin, "I enjoyed it. Every moment, every scream, every look of terror in their eyes."

Jane feels the blood drain from her face. For a moment, she can't find her voice. She's too close to him, within arm's reach. Helplessly perched on the corner of the desk that belongs to this world's version of him. Feeling almost sorry for him, until he says those words, in that way, with such darkness in his eyes. "You're a monster," she whispers, the words tearing themselves from her chest.

His smirk twitches, the corners of his eyes tightening, "So I am told." Jane slips from the desk, moves slowly around it. "Trying to escape?" he asks lightly, gesturing lazily with a single hand, "The door is right over there."

She bolts, pushes the door open with an almost frantic need to get away from him. She tears through the outer office, taking not even a moment to meet Frank's still bewildered gaze, or April's more critical one. She throws open the door to the hall, gets several feet down the worn carpeting, and then pauses, her breath rattling in her lungs.

"Hey, now, sweetheart," a New York accent grumbles into her ear, "I thought we had a deal. You keep this whole business silent, and we keep your fiancé alive."

"Fiancé?" Jane stutters, as the muzzle of the gun presses tighter against her back.

"What is this?" a second male voice whines, "Broad got amnesia now?"

"Shut it, Ralphy," the voice in her ear barks, "You'll give her some clever ideas, and I got no patience for tricks."

"Just tell me what you want," Jane stammers, "Whatever you want, I'll do it."

"Sweetheart," says the voice in her ear, "You know I want to believe you, but we told you what we wanted you to do, and you came running straight here. Like some private dick is going back you up in a gunfight." He makes a tsking sound, "Won't be makin' that mistake again, will we?" He shoves the gun more insistently against her spine, "Now move, sweetheart. Don't have any plans on redecorating this particular hallway in red today."

She opens her mouth to scream, but the voice is one step ahead of her. A heavy, grimy hand falls across her mouth, "And don't play cute, neither. Screamin' is just goin' get you killed a little faster. Like I said, I ain't got decorating plans, but it don't mean I won't do it." Jane swallows hard. She opens her mouth and closes her teeth down on the fleshy palm. She's done this before.

"Damnit," the voice barks, the hand flying from her mouth. For a moment, the gun leaves her spine.

"Loki!" she screams. He's the only hope she's got.

"You're gonna regret that," says the voice. It's the last thing she hears before pain blossoms across the back of her skull. She goes down with a whimper, and the world goes black.

* * *

_In the dream, she's not Jane Foster… because Jane Foster cannot survive in the spaces between spaces. But she is here, nonetheless. A memory, a whisper, a dream, carried in the arms of a creature who can survive in these shapeless places. _

_With eyes that are not eyes, she sees what has no form. The strings that vibrate and hum with life. The tapestries that layer and border and exist sideways against each other. Universes woven from fate and choice. She holds the string that is herself. In her hands that are not hands, it becomes a ribbon, a strand of space-time that is her own. She follows it, feels it out. It is wrong, this strand. It has been plucked from the place it belongs, has fallen through the layers. It has tangled through the patterns, interrupting fate and choice, pulling the universes just that much closer together. _

_And all along the length of it, a parallel thread is wound tight around her own. _

* * *

Her head throbs as it lolls forward. She groans quietly as her eyes flutter open and strain in the darkness. There's an awkward ache in her arms. But there's a more pressing thought on her mind._ He said you bring him with, _she accuses the spirit,_ He said you need him. _

She feels the spirit dither in the farthest reaches of her mind. She feels the stretch of her arms, the pain in her head more acutely._ Stop it_, she thinks at it,_ ramping up the pain isn't going to make me forget this. _She pulls on her arms, feels the rough bite of the rope that binds them behind the back of the chair on which she sits. She swings her legs, testing the rope wound around her ankles. She can't get her feet flat, curled under the chair as they are. She huffs in frustration._ C'mon, _she thinks,_ We aren't going anywhere soon._

The fleeting impression of Loki's hands on her grazes her mind. She feels the pull of his magic as it tears them out of the world. _So we do need him_, she presses, _But you aren't the reason we're bringing him along_. The spirit sends her a wave of what feels like misery. Jane exhales harshly, twisting her wrists again. _He'll be so pleased_, she thinks, _You keeping his secrets for him. _

"Peggy," she hears a male voice call, "Check on the girl, will you?"

"Cody, " a female voice implores, "You know I hate it when you bring your work to mine."

"Pegs, all you gotta do is go check the closet."

Jane falls still, her eyes wide in the darkness. She feels the image of her body limp and head slumped to the side pressed against her mind. _Right_, she thinks in a gasp, letting her body fall loose the moment before the door cracks open.

A sudden wedge of light falls across her, and she struggles to keep her breathing even. "Huh," the woman breathes. Satin-gloved fingers grab her chin and raise her face into the light, "She's a pretty one, Cody." The fingers shift, "You didn't mention that."

"Haven't even seen her," the voice says, "I had Boston and Ralphy bring her in."

The woman clicks her tongue impatiently, "Those brutes? A lady needs a gentle touch, Cody." Gentle fingers run over Jane's scalp, "See this lump? They went and brained her with a gun."

"They said she was screaming."

The fingers curve gently down the side of Jane's face, "And why wouldn't she? Pretty girl like this. Never been manhandled in her life. Ain't tough, these kinds of girls."

"Not like you, Peggy," the male voice murmurs hoarsely.

The hand slips from Jane's face. "Nothing like me, sugar," the woman replies. There's the faint sound of satin rustling as she crosses the room once more. The door remains ajar and Jane opens her eyes. Shadow hides half her face as she stares through the crack at her captors.

A beautiful woman, blonde hair twisted into an elegant twist, sits draped across a slick, but handsome man's lap. Elbow-length, white gloves hide her hands as she strokes the side of the man's face. One bare leg peeks through an indecently high slit in her red satin dress. Her gloves rasp across his light stubble. "You need a shave," she pouts, slapping his cheek gently.

"You need to be kissed," he replies, his voice hoarse with desire.

"I need to be getting ready," she purrs in reply. "Curtain goes up in a minute. And you know Jack won't be happy if I'm late and you're back here."

The man sighs longingly, his broad hands settling upon the woman's generous hips and setting her on her feet, "Can't be getting you in trouble, huh, Pegs?"

"You're always getting me in trouble," Peggy replies with a sly smile, "Now get outta here. The girl'll be just fine in the closet. Couldn't get far anyway."

Jane watches in silence as the man shakes out his checkered suit jacket as he stands. He pulls Peggy close, her fingers tangling around his black tie, and they kiss with a passion that Jane can feel from the closet. She stays silent as he extricates himself from Peggy's embrace, grabs a black hat, and sets it upon his head as he leaves the room. Peggy watches him leave for a moment, one hip jutting as she closes the door slowly behind him.

"Now, sweetheart," she says, "You and I need to have a heart-to-heart."

"You know I'm awake," Jane replies.

The woman smiles, opens the closet door a little wider, and then settles in front of her boudoir, her eyes meeting Jane's in the mirror, "Honey, I know when a woman's faking. But I have no reason to spoil your cover."

"Then you could let me go."

The woman laughs, a bright tinkling sound, as she picks up a powder brush, "I could, honey," she murmurs as she dusts her cheeks, "But if Cody says to keep an eye on you, well, that's just what I'm going to do."

"Because you love him," Jane says flatly. She glares at the woman in the mirror, "Isn't that a little cliché? Falling for the bad guy?"

"Cody ain't a bad guy," Peggy says as she sets down the powder brush and raises her mascara, "He just gets himself into trouble."

"Same thing," Jane grinds, hating that even now she's thinking of Loki, "Isn't it?"

She watches as Peggy puts down the mascara and shifts in her seat. She levels her baby blue eyes, "See, the problem is, sweetheart, you say it but you don't mean it. Cause if your fiancé hadn't tried to double-cross Cody, you wouldn't be here now. So don't try and act all high and mighty. Every man gets into trouble. The trick is whether he's got your back when you manage to fall into it."

"And you call that love?" Jane asks dully.

"I call that a good man," Peggy replies evenly, "Besides, ain't none of us angels." She winks at Jane as she stands, "You ain't goin' to like this part, sweetheart." She moves towards Jane with a sashay of her hips, and a moment later she's tying a scarf over her mouth.

"Mhph!" Jane exclaims, staring at Peggy with furious eyes.

Peggy shakes her head, "Hush now, sweetheart. It's a fairer shake than you got from Boston."

The closet door closes in her face and Jane screams her frustration into the scarf. She twitches and jostles the chair, managing to accomplish only a random thump of a chair leg and the exacerbation of the rope burn on her ankles and wrists. She stares with hatred at the closet door. She feels the spirit nudge her, a wave of warm compassion enveloping her. _Oh no_, Jane thinks darkly, _Did you think we were done discussing that last topic?_ She doesn't think she imagines the spirit's quiver.

* * *

She sits for what feels like hours in the darkness. The spirit has refused to engage her anger, sending only intermittent memories of them cooperating at her. The occasional brassy trumpet peal echoes through. She can just imagine a woman like Peggy crooning something sultry into a smoky crowd. It seems to fit this world, in any case.

Finally, she hears voices in the hall. The door to the dressing room creaks open. "I heard a rumour," a familiar voice says, accent curving the words into smoother shapes than a New Yorker can manage, "That you and Cody Miller –"

"A rumour?" Peggy echoes, her voice tinged in amusement, "About me and Cody Miller?" There's a pause, "Now just where did you happen to hear that sort of rumour, Mister…?"

Jane grinds her teeth at the flirtatious drop in Peggy's tone. "Lawson," she hears him reply, "Detective Lawson."

"Detective?" Peggy clucks, "So, you're chasing a rumour and it brings you backstage." Her tone is slick with insinuation, "What exactly is it you think I can help you with?"

The rope burns across her wrists as Jane twists in her seat, angling her body so a single chair leg pulls up from the floor. She lets it fall with a satisfying thump. For a moment, there is silence on the other side of the door. "That sounded rather like a thump," Loki says finally.

"Chorus girls," Peggy volleys back, "Such clumsy things. They're in the next room. Feathers and all."

Silence again and Jane chews violently on the scarf. "So, Detective Lawson," Peggy purrs, "What really brings you back here?"

"Client of mine," Loki drawls, "She's gone missing. Snatched right outside my office door, in fact. Something of a challenge there, from where I stand."

"A challenge?" Peggy lets the words drip, "Sounds like you're taking it a bit too personal."

"I assure you," she hears Loki reply crisply, "That is exactly how it is." Jane feels her breath catch in her throat. There's a dark edge to Loki's voice, like he's promising something she really shouldn't approve of. "I will find her," he says, "And when I do, whoever has her will wish they had never laid a hand on her."

The door to the dressing room slams shut. For a long moment, Jane sits alone in the dark. The closet door finally opens in a slow arc. Peggy looks at her with distant eyes, "If I didn't know any better, honey…" She shakes her head as Jane stares up at her fiercely, scarf wet between her teeth. "You got a thing for dangerous guys, sweetheart?" she finally asks, her eyes shifting suspiciously back to the door.

"Mhph," Jane growls.

Peggy turns amused eyes back down at her, gives her a tilt of her head and a smirk, "He's good looking enough. Not sure what your fiancé is goin' to think, though."

Jane glares sullenly up at the woman, hating her more with every passing moment.

"Pegs!" Cody's voice cries suddenly as the door explodes inward, "What in hell was that dick doin' back here?"

Peggy turns her head, her amusement disappearing behind cool determination. "Said a client of his was snatched on his doorstep. Said that makes it personal," she arches her eyebrows, "Guess your boys Boston and Ralphy are even dumber than I thought."

"You don't know he was talkin' about this broad," Cody says, his hands in the air, "Could be about anybody."

"Mhph!" Jane says, glaring daggers at the both of them.

"Hey!" Cody exclaims, "Our girl's awake!"

"Not so loud, Cody," Peggy mutters, "Jack's still around."

Cody shakes his head, "That don't matter none now. We got us an ace in the hole." He grins down at Jane and pulls the scarf from her mouth. "Now, doll, how about you tell us where Jeffery stashed the loot, huh?"

Jane works her jaw a few times, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cody leans forward over her, "C'mon, sweetcheeks, you know we know you know. You might as well spit it out."

Jane grimaces, "I really don't know."

Cody straightens, his hand smoothing down the length of his tie. "What don't you know?" he says finally, "Where the loot is?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jane replies crisply, frustrated at the entire situation.

"Told ya, Cody," Peggy says quietly, "Boys, they don't get a girl like this involved. Look at 'er. She's some general's daughter or the like. High society. Probably ran off with the kid, thinkin' its love, and now he's got to make ends meet for a princess."

"That's a pretty detailed story," Jane mutters, "Had time to work on it?"

Peggy smiles at her, a bitter note hidden in her eyes. "I've known girls like you," she says evenly, "Fall for the wrong guy, then realize he isn't the one, and either run home or find out they can't. That's when the mess begins, you know."

"Have experience, do you?"

"Ladies," Cody interjects, "Ladies, let's, uh, bring this back down. If our girl here don't know anything, then what's the use in keeping her here?"

Peggy turns her blue eyes on him, "Think he'll talk if she's there?"

"It's what I'm thinkin'," Cody replies. He smiles down at Jane, "Sorry, doll." He pulls out a black revolver, "Nighty night." Pain ripples across her temple and Jane's world goes dark.

* * *

When Jane swims back to consciousness, she's in the dark again. The chair seems to have made the trip with her, and her ankles and wrists ache brutally. The spirit is pushing waves of comfort over her, but it isn't blocking out the pain in her head. She groans, lifts her head with a crack of her neck, and blinks into her blurred surroundings.

"Jane?" a young man's voice calls. "Jane, I'm so sorry. This is… this is all my fault. I," the voice pauses, "I promised you I'd keep you safe, and I've just made such a mess of it."

"Jeffery?" Jane guesses into the dark as shapes begin to emerge.

"Jane," the young man continues, "I don't know what they're going to do, and I don't know what… There's nothing I can promise to you. There's no help coming."

Jane cracks her neck in the opposite direction, shifting painfully on the chair. "Yes, there is," she says slowly into the dark, "Loki will come. He always does. He's already got a lead."

"Loki?" the voice stammers, "Who's Loki?"

Jane strains her eyes in the darkness. A pale, frightened face peers at her from deeper shadows a few feet away. "Loki Lawson," she mutters, letting her eyes slide closed again, "He's a detective."

"You went to a detective?" Jeffery stammers into the dark. There's a long pause, "With what money?"

Jane sighs, "I don't know."

"You don't know what money," Jeffery echoes, his voice lost and despairing. "You know what I have to assume, don't you?"

Jane leans her head back as far as it will go. "What do you have to assume?" she asks tiredly, already just so done with the insinuations that there's anything between her and Loki. Anything aside from that one kiss, in any case.

"That you went back to your father," Jeffery replies, sounding wretched. "You had to ask your father for money. The one thing you never wanted to do." He takes a shaking breath, "I hate myself for you."

Jane rolls her eyes, "Don't be melodramatic."

"Melo-" Jeffery starts, "What's gotten into you?"

"They hit me on the head," Jane says flatly, "Twice. The resulting headache is making me just a little cranky, okay?"

"I… Okay," he stammers, "I'm sorry, Jane. I really am. I should've listened to you. You always said we could make it work. That staying clean was worth being poor."

Jane sighs, accepting that silence won't be an option. "Sounds like I'm a smart girl," she mutters.

"The smartest," Jeffery gushes back, "And the prettiest." He's quiet for a moment. "When we get out of here, Jane, I swear, I'm going to make it all up to you."

"That's nice," she says, with as little venom as she can manage, "I think we might be over though, Jeffery."

"Wha-what?" he stutters.

Jane watches the figures moving behind Jeffery come to a stop. "The cavalry isn't here," she whispers, heart heavy, "I'm sorry for making you hope."

"Cavalry, is it?" a bitter voice says in the dark, "Fancy words for a fancy-"

"Boston!" Cody barks as a painfully bright light bulb is turned on, "Now's not really the time."

In the yellow light of the single, bare bulb, Cody looks surprisingly sinister. At his feet, a young man lies awkwardly still. "Still got nothin' to say to me, Jeffery?" Cody demands. The bulb swings in the air above them, casting strange shadows on the still machinery around them.

"I wasn't a part of it!" Cody exclaims from the ground where he lays, "I swear. I backed out at the last minute. Harry and –" his words are cut off by a sickening, wet impact. His groans fill the air.

Jane watches in horror as Jeffery turns his pale face towards her. She can see now the black bruises around his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks, the blood that spills from his split lip. "Jeffery," she gasps.

"Jane," he says, the sound of fluid in his words, "I swear. I really did back out at the last minute. I didn't do it. I couldn't. Not with your voice in my head saying-"

"Shut up," Boston grunts, stepping into the circle of light. His rumpled brown suit hanging on his body like it's a size or two off. He beats a heavy fist into a dirty hand, "If you ain't got answers, what good is you to us?"

"Boston," Cody says warningly, "We don't know for sure that he isn't lying." He aims another heavy kick at Jeffery's midsection. There's a sickening sort of squelch and Jane turns her head.

"I swear!" Jeffery wails, "I swear!"

By the time the third kick lands, Jane has her eyes clenched shut. "Stop it," she whispers, "Stop it. Just stop it." The sounds of violence continue.

"Sweetcheeks," Cody's voice murmurs into her ear, "I'm going to need you to open your eyes. This little show is for your benefit, after all."

"Why?" she whispers on a ragged breath.

"Because I think you know something," Cody continues, a hand on each shoulder as he circles behind her, straightening her neck, "And I want you to talk. And I think the way to do that, is to make you watch."

Another heavy kick lands and Jeffery makes a weak, faintly gurgling sound. "You're killing him," Jane whispers, tears in her eyes, "You're killing him to get me to talk about something I don't know anything about."

She feels something cold and sharp press against her throat. "But you do know something," Cody tells her, "And you're going to tell me, or else I'm goin' to beat your fiancé 'til there's nothing left to beat, and I'll slit your pretty throat."

There's wetness on her cheeks now as she shakes her head carefully. "No," she sputters, "Just… what do you want to know? What do you want?"

Cody chuckles dryly, "Now we're getting' somewhere." In the distance, something metal clatters against a concrete floor. The knife at Jane's throat taps impatiently against her skin. "What was that?" Cody demands.

Boston looks up from the crumpled form at his feet, "We left Tony at the entrance."

Cody steps away from Jane's side, knife leaving her neck with a whisper. "Ralphy," he barks, "Go check on Tony."

"Yeah, boss," one of the shadows behind Boston detaches and moves into the darkness. A moment of silence later, there's a second clatter.

"That's guns," someone says, "Guns falling on the ground."

"And why," Cody snaps, "Would my men be dropping their guns in an abandoned factory?" He turns, the knife in his hand reflecting back the yellow light of the swaying bulb. "Vince," he says quietly, "And Burke. You guys check out whatever's going on."

Two more shadows slip away, leaving only one besides Boston. "Boss," he growls, "I don't like this."

Cody taps the flat of the knife against his palm. "Me neither," he mutters with narrowed eyes. Somewhere, not far off now, there's a pained moan and a heavy thud. A second follows close behind. "Damnit," Cody snarls, turning on his heel and pressing the knife blade into the flesh of Jane's throat, "Last chance, doll."

Jane's breath snags, and in that moment, Cody is pushed abruptly forward. Wide-eyed, Jane watches the knife fall to the ground a mere foot or two away. She lifts her gaze to see Loki in what seems to be three places at once. A punch lands in the shadowed man's gut, a leg sweep sends Boston to the ground, a taunt has Cody staggering forward into a phantom. Jane shakes her head and does the practical thing: she sways back and forth a few times until the chair falls entirely over.

Pain rushes up her left side, her already aching shoulder screaming. She squirms her way up the chair, kicking it out from the circle of her still-bound wrists with her locked ankles. There's a flurry of movement to her right, but she patiently ignores it. The sound of male grunts and groans fills the air as she wiggles slowly toward the knife, angling herself so her stiff fingers can search it out. It takes her a few tries to find the handle, but a nick or two is worth getting free.

A body flies over hers, and she stills for a moment before returning to the sawing of the rope around her wrists. "Who the hell do you think you are?" she hears Cody demand as the last few fibers break. She pulls her arms back to their natural alignment, and moans with the sheer relief of it.

"A nightmare," she hears Loki say, "A nightmare you brought upon yourself."

She works her way to a sitting position, her free hands aching as she saws through the rope around her feet. She lifts her gaze in time to watch Cody go down. Loki spins, the trench coat flaring like a cloak around him. Boston barrels right through him, the illusion evaporating away. She looks back down at the rope and saws increasingly frantically. A glance to her right reveals the unmoving form of a man she doesn't recognize. The shining handle of a pistol peeks from his pocket. Jane swallows the cottony feeling in her dry mouth. She cuts through the last strands of rope and grabs the pistol.

She doesn't even try to stand, instead scrambling wildly backwards until her back is to a wall. Her shoulders ache, her hands shake, her ankles and wrists are raw. She throws a glance at Jeffery's still form, and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees his chest rise and fall ever so slightly. She leans her head back against the cement wall behind her and gasps for breath.

"Jane?" Loki asks, the fedora long gone, crimson ribbons of blood splashed across the trench coat he now wears.

Jane lifts her gaze, meets his eyes, and feels the spirit flutter madly. Her eyes slide past Loki, to Cody, who is even now pulling himself up off the ground. Her throat constricts. The pistol shakes in her trembling hands. She lifts it, the shape unfamiliar in her hands. But she knows how to use it. She doesn't look as she flicks off the safety.

"Jane," Loki repeats, his voice harder now. He takes a step closer to her, his head tilting oddly in her direction.

Behind him, Cody climbs silently to his feet. He had a gun, Jane remembers. A black revolver that has worked its way into his hands as he takes a step. His eyes are dark, his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. She sees his target. The pistol shakes in her hands.

_I can't_, she thinks, her finger frozen on the trigger, _I can't_. The spirit hovers, a ball of frenetic energy with no direction to travel in. _I'm not this person_, she thinks as she feels a tear track its way down her cheek.

"Jane," Loki says insistently, his face contorting into something like disbelief.

Cody raises his arm. **Now**, says an inky black voice in Jane's head, **You can. You must.**

Jane shakes her head, opens and shuts her mouth without sound, _No_.

She sees, as plain as day, the gun in Cody's hand fire. She sees the bullet leave the muzzle, sound and light exploding. She sees Loki crumple. Sees red pool out across the cold concrete floor. Sees him deathly still. Her heart in her throat, she moves, shaking and trembling, to him. Holds a wrist. Takes a pulse. Stillness.

He isn't a god in every dimension.

Cody is standing, his arm still raised, his face a mask of ugliness and hate. Jane pulls the trigger. Watches the bullet pierce his skull and take him down, his body collapsing like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

"Jane?" he says in a hoarse whisper from where he stands, just a few feet from her. She turns her head to meet his shocked gaze. Watches him as he looks between the gun in her hands and the still form behind him. She sees him cross the floor to Cody's corpse, his eyes directed down at the perfect hole into his brain. "That was," he begins, "An amazing shot."

Oxygen tears its way into Jane's lungs. She stares at Loki, who stares back at her. "But," she whispers, her hands shaking dangerously around the gun in her hands. She licks her lips nervously, "But you're…" She flings the gun away from her suddenly and violently. There's a puddle of crimson blood spreading around Loki's feet, and when he crosses the floor back to her, his shoes leave bloody footprints behind.

**I'm sorry**, says the voice in her head that isn't hers, **What else could I do?**

"Jane," he says softly, dropping to the floor in front of her, "Jane?" To his credit, he doesn't ask if she's okay.

"I just," she begins, her voice drying up in her throat, "I just…"

Loki's hands settle on either side of her head and he stares intently into her eyes. She feels oddly numb. A little cold. "You're going into shock," she hears him say, as if from far away. His hands slip away from her and he runs one through his hair, loosening the tight hold of whatever gel had slicked it back. "We can't stay here," he mutters impatiently. She might be able to hear police sirens in the air. She watches him shake his head. "Jane," he mutters, "You impossibly frustrating creature." She feels him slide an arm beneath her legs, another around her back. He lifts her with ease, pulling her close into his chest.

She stays very still in his arms. The trench coat is wet with blood that isn't his. The wool of his charcoal-coloured suit rubs against her fingers. His black tie seems devastatingly fascinating. He moves like a predator, even holding her. His head turning to look everywhere at once, his footsteps quick and quiet as he slides from one shadow to the next. She doesn't know where he's taking her. Doesn't care.

Jane Foster just killed a man.

* * *

It's a cheap hotel with a neon sign that flickers every time the wind blows by. She can see the red and green glow on the cracked, off-white paint of the window sill. She watches it in mute fascination from the bed, where Loki's left her sitting on a threadbare coverlet. At a distance, she can hear the splash of water. A bathroom, maybe. If it matters. If anything matters.

He was dead. She saw it. Saw his blood on the ground, felt the stillness of his pulse. **I'm sorry**, insists the oil slick presence in her skull, **It had to be done**. She sees it still, the memory of life that didn't happen. There's a part of her that wonders how it did it. How deep she's let it go, that it can twist and tweak the parts of her brain responsible for perception. She's wondering now, in that oddly unaffected part of herself, just what else it can do. What it can make her do. What it will make her do. **Nothing**, it presses**, **oddly feminine in its own way.

She doesn't know what to think, what to feel. She's killed a man. And she isn't entirely in control of her own mind.

But that isn't why she killed the man.

"I take it," he says, in a tone that suggests he only half expects an answer from her, "That was the first man you've ever killed?"

She turns her head to watch him as he settles on the edge of the bed. He holds a damp washcloth in his hand, hesitating as her eyes meet his. She stares blankly at him. He shakes his head and presses the cloth to her throat, wiping in soft, gentle strokes. He pulls it away. She gazes at the dull red streak that runs across it. She never felt the knife bite into her skin.

"It gets easier," he continues, the washcloth moving in his hands until a cleaner corner emerges. He places it softly against her forehead, and continues with the eerily gentle strokes across her skin until her face is clear of dust and dirt. She watches the tendons move under the skin of his neck.

"It shouldn't," she says finally, her voice rough and hollow in her ears. He blinks at her, pulling the cloth away suddenly. She gazes back at him dully, "I don't want it to."

But she knows its true. Even now, her clever brain is processing it. Even now, its justifying the actions of the spirit, of herself, of Loki. She's too smart not to see the logic in all of this. She needs Loki. Not just the way the spirit needs Loki. They both need him to get to the next world. But she needs him in each world. He's the only one who knows, who understands, who has her back through all of this.

And god knows, she hates him for it. Violently.

"It doesn't matter what you want," he says quietly, "That's life. You kill or you are killed."

"That isn't life," she argues without vehemence, "That's war. That's struggle. That's-"

"Life is struggle," he says, his eyes dark as they meet hers, "Life is war."

"Not my life," she replies, moving away and turning her shoulder on him as she presses her head down onto a pillow.

"Not before," he whispers, "But it is now."

* * *

_A/N: A huge credit to this chapter belongs to youtube, for supplying me with jazz from the 1940s and 1950s and clips of various films noirs (particularly Bogart and Bacall in "The Big Sleep"). Secondary shout-outs to Wikipedia for being awesome, and Roger Ebert's rather tongue-in-cheek "Guide to Film Noir Genre."  
_


	13. Chapter Twelve

_A/N: Alright, so this chapter was hugely, terribly delayed. Real life reared its head… I started a new job that is both wonderful and demanding, and my long-time boyfriend who I'd been playing happy home with decided that he needed to take a step back and live his own life. Bit of a blow there for me and my feelings about love. Since I didn't want my hurt feelings to interfere with this story, I took a step back for awhile. In time, I've come to believe in happy endings again… but it did take a little while. _

_Anyway, this chapter is painfully short, but I figure it is better than no update at all. _

_And to settle the on-going debate over rate-changing… I have decided not to increase the rating at this time. I do, however, reserve the right to increase it at any future time (with warning, of course). If you have any questions or concerns or want a rationale behind this choice, feel free to PM me at any time. I'm happy to discuss my reasons!  
_

* * *

_**Chapter 12**_

Her breath steams in the winter air, a white cloud of warmth and moisture that disappears into the cold wind that brushes over her body. A shiver runs through her as her dark, liquid eyes measure the landscape below. Snow-covered hills rise up behind and before her, trapping the shallow valley and its dark, needled pines between them. The wind whispers through the snow-covered branches of the pines, sending glittering puffs of snow into the air. She follows their movement warily, gauging whether she truly is downwind of whatever might lurk in the forest's depths.

She blinks slowly, weighing the danger. She strains her ears in the silence, catching a few scattered cries from rough-voiced ravens. The valley is still; deceptively inviting against the harsh wind up here on the crest. She leans into it, letting the chill of it seep into her skin. She breathes deep the clean, evergreen scent, sifting for something more dangerous beneath it. It is a gamble, but she needs shelter before it gets dark. A deep breath lifts her chest. With careful steps, she wades down through the snow. She's looking for something, after all.

She's long since forgotten what it means, but she carries the strangest memory within her. It isn't of snow or pines or cold winds, but it feels cold nonetheless. There are no claws or fangs, but it feels like it is full of the most terrible pain. She remembers being alone, but not alone. Alone in feeling. She can hear a noise, sharp and achingly unnatural. She remembers lights that flash in blue and red. Colours of warning spilled across a wall. Whatever a wall might be.

There is a voice in the memory, low and smooth and strangely regretful. Alone, but not alone. There is a touch on her skin: too cold, too gentle. It is not right, though she doesn't know quite why. There are words. _We need to go._ She doesn't remember what they mean.

She only knows that she is here now. In the snow and the cold wind. She shakes her head, flicks her ears. She's listening for any real sound, ignoring the noises in her head she doesn't understand. Her hooves sink in the drifting powder, and the muscles in her long, lean legs strain. She lowers her head against the blowing snow, flakes collecting singly on her long, dark eyelashes. She takes another step in the sinking snow, adjusts her balance, and then repeats it all again. The crest is still high above the pine forest, and she is quickly losing the light.

There is a pressure in her head. Like so many things in that strange place, it makes no sense. It places demands she cannot meet. Isn't it enough to survive?

**Survive?** it echoes mournfully with sounds she has lost, **You aren't a deer!**

She shakes her head again, ears swiveling in the cold air. There is a profound sense of disappointment washing across her mind, accompanied closely by a bitter frustration. She feels it only as hunger and pain. She pauses, paws at the snow. The grasses beneath are dry and stiff, entombed by winter's cold grasp. There is no food here. Hunger will wait.

**Jane,** it presses**, Think. Please. Think through this. You aren't a deer. You are a human. A person. You need to find…**

Jane freezes as even the noises in her head are drowned out by the long, low cry of a wolf. Her ears turn quickly, catching the haunting sound. Her muscles bunch and tighten. Her eyes are wide with a primal fear.

The call is picked up by the rest of the pack, and now there is not one howl filling the valley, but many. Her heart thuds heavily in her chest as her blood runs cold. She leaps from the snow, all care forgotten in the face of this new, sharp terror. Her tail signals her intent, a white flag, paler still than the snow that surrounds her. She bolts for the trees.

Hooves crunch the buried ground, her breath comes in icy gasps. She is too loud, too loud by far. A hungry pack will hear her. A hungry pack will take her down. She leaps into the shadow of the pines, her lithe, brown body dodging their trunks as she ducks her head beneath heavy branches. She springs over the lowest boughs, startling at the wet thud of snow falling from further above.

And then it all goes wrong.

She pulls up short, her flanks heaving with exertion. Yellow eyes stare cunningly back at her, patches of grey fur visible between the thick needles of the shorter pine behind which the predator crouches. She leans backward, wheeling in slow-motion on her hind legs, falling with a crash back upon them when another pair of eyes greets her still.

There is a single snarl, a harsh biting sound that pulls the yellow gazes off of her. She trembles as the pair of wolves slinks silently away, drawn by the command of their alpha. She stares after them, watching with a fascination belonging to something other than a creature born to be prey. Their grey forms melt into the shadows of the trees.

**Go**, she feels the pressure urge her frozen feet forward. She's driven now by something she cannot describe. Her instincts scream for her to turn tail and run. She should put as much distance between herself and this place as she can. Still she moves forward. She doesn't remember that curiosity is what has always driven her. That this is simply her truest nature pushing through.

The branches thin, and she spies the narrowest sort of clearing. The warm hulk of an older deer steams beneath the shifting twilight, its neck ripped open. Hot flesh gapes wider as crimson blood splatters. The alpha wolf gives the corpse a final shake, sharp teeth shredding through the toughened hide. She is frozen, rooted in place behind a single, heavy bough. The wolf raises his head, blood on his teeth, in his fur, dripping down into the snow. His green-eyed gaze meets her own.

There is a moment of gut-wrenching terror. She knows nothing but the blinding need to run. As fast and as far as possible, until the weight of the black wolf's stare is less than the ghost of a memory. But she doesn't run. She trembles. Her muscles knot. She stays perfectly still.

The black-furred alpha lowers his head, rips an excruciating bite from the flesh beneath his nose. He swallows it, licks the blood from his muzzle with lazy pleasure. He nods to his pack, takes a half step back as they fall in upon the carcass. He looks back up at her as if to say, _This is how it is. They die so we may live._

And she feels a deeper fear now, because she has thought in words. Remembers words. Remembers meaning. Remembers the smell of gunpowder and the pooling of blood. She is not a predator. Not a hunter. Not a part of this. No one dies so she may live. She runs. Runs instead.

**No, Jane,** the voice says with a gentle finality, **Sometimes they must die, so we may live.**

Jane watches the black wolf slip silently from his pack's side. She watches him come closer. Stares at him now with only a heavy heart and perfect comprehension. He pauses before her, his green eyes searching hers. His muzzle is still streaked with the crimson blood of the other, less lucky deer.

Jane bows her head down to meet him. He touches his bloody muzzle to her soft, black nose. She feels the blood on her skin. Feels the guilt and the shame and the absolute necessity of it all. Of death for life.

**Let it go, Jane**, the voice tells her, a wave of warmth spreading out into her.

_No_, Jane thinks, vehemence in her words, _Never. That is what you do. That is what he does. That isn't me. _

The voice is still, silent, shocked to encounter such a stubborn morality. Jane is silent as well, her heart heavy with knowing and understanding. She has let an entirely unknown thing into her head. She has taken a life. And now she's tried to run from it all. She has no more choices left. She has to take responsibility for all of this now. Fix it, somehow, if there is any sort of way. She closes her eyes as Loki's magic pulls tight around them and shifts them out of the world and into a place beyond knowing. When they settle, she knows she's going to have to finally come clean. She just wishes it was with someone who could understand.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_A/N: I want to apologize for the ridiculously long delay. I've been really caught up with things at work, and I'm still getting used to coming home to an empty house… but here, finally, is the next chapter. _

_I don't usually dedicate my chapters, but this one is for Beeftink, who has been amazingly supportive and kind. _

_Also, all of you readers are amazingly awesome. Your reviews warm my heart and keep me company as I deal with all the changes happening in my real world. So thank you for reading and reviewing! And I hope you continue to enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

There is a moment where Jane feels safe. Safe and warm and comforted in a way that she can't remember ever having felt. Her consciousness flutters into this state and hovers there. She's halfway between sleep and waking, and while she can't quite touch the reasons why she doesn't want to wake, she knows that this beautiful moment should be held precious. It's the calm before a storm, the last day of summer, the perfectly-wrapped gift that looks like it contains all your dreams, only to turn out to be nothing more than new socks. She doesn't want the socks, or the winter, or the storm. She wants this quiet peace and comfort.

Jane opens her eyes slowly. The pillowcase beneath her head is pale blue cotton, soft against her cheek. Pale sunlight shines in past filmy white sheers. A gentle breeze tosses them aside and wafts towards her. The cool air feels chill against her face and smells faintly of early autumn. She lets the shiver run down her spine indulgently. The arms that hold her tighten imperceptibly, and Jane closes her eyes again.

It isn't right, she supposes, but it has been so very long since she's woken up with another warm body beside her own. And she doesn't remember ever having woken up in someone else's arms. She's never been loved like that; never been cherished. And for all the gods and goddesses she's met, she still doesn't know which one she ought to be praying to about that. Because this, this beautiful, perfect, blissful moment, is something she wants. Forever, preferably. This feeling of belonging is everything she's ever longed for. And she has it here.

She thinks maybe she's a thief. This life, with whoever these wonderful arms belong to, is most certainly not hers. It belongs to some Jane who made good decisions. Some Jane who must be a much better person than she is. Some Jane who is less stubborn maybe, or more careful. Some Jane deserving of these arms that hold her like she is somehow beloved. Not her. Not the Jane who shoots people. Not the Jane who apparently jumps from world to world destroying the lives of all of her alternate selves. Not the Jane who is, for all intensive purposes, on the run with the violent, malicious god of lies and mischief.

She squirms a little closer to the body that owns the arms that love this Jane. Bare skin rubs against bare skin. She fights the terrible, wonderful thrill that runs through her as she confirms the very maleness of her bedmate. His arms tighten again, pulling her flush against him, and she can't help but to squirm again. There's been no one since Donald (she never did get that close to Thor), and she's only realizing now how much she misses this sensation. This longing of one body for the touch of another. She lets this man pull her close, lets his skin touch her skin, lets instinct rule them both as he only now begins to wake.

There's an ocean of guilt forming in her stomach, but she's rationalizing it. Whoever it is that is holding her is obviously important to her. No one is held like this, is clung to like this in the moment before waking, who isn't loved. And if they love her, and if she is here, doesn't it make sense that this Jane must love them too? And wouldn't it then be a worse, more damaging thing to turn them away? Assuming… well, assuming. Would it be such a terrible, immoral thing to simply let herself feel just a fraction of that love, that need, that desire? She suspects it would. She also knows she won't stop him. Not if he, whoever he is, touches her with half the reverence she can feel in this embrace.

He's waking up now. His body shifts against her own, his hands sliding into life and fitting only too perfectly over her curves. It's a gentle touch, with long fingers that run down her skin, a sense of possession left in their wake. Jane's breath catches in her throat. Maybe this body knows its lover. Maybe this Jane has simply found someone with whom she has mind-blowing chemistry. Whatever the reasoning, her nerve endings are bursting into life at the only half-aware caresses being painted across her skin. She isn't entirely certain she could handle a conscious, directed purpose behind this sort of touch. She suspects she'd simply burn up. She's already coming dangerously undone. He sighs, his nose buried in her hair. He breathes deep, exhales softly across the shell of her ear. And Jane freezes.

The bare body wrapped around her own very naked skin stills in concert with her own sudden paralysis. Her jaw sets, her teeth grinding sharply across themselves. Her eyes are wide now. Wide and glassy and filled with the sickening horror and dread that she thinks now she should have felt all along. She should know this body, she thinks. Somehow, she should just know. She should expect that life and all the various universes are just this horrible. At her ear, his breath has gone from soft and slow to a rough-edged stagger. There's no graceful way to escape this awful, gruesome moment.

Her gaze wanders as she ponders how best to extricate herself. He's probably considering the same thing. Maybe she can simply pretend to be asleep. It'd be a blatant lie, but it isn't as if those bother _him _all that much. She spies it now, the photograph that if spotted a few moments earlier could have had her avoiding all this entirely unnecessary touching and closeness and… she won't even think about it. They're naked. In bed. Together. She supposes she could simply die. That might solve things neatly.

The photograph mocks her. The two people in it are complete strangers to her. Their expressions are too easy, too open. Their eyes are only for each other. It looks, maybe, perhaps, like love. She can admit that to them. _They_ are different people who belong to a different world and a different life. _They_ can be happy and in love and… maybe she hates them a little for having each other like that. For being able to make each other _smile_ like that. Smiles that brighten their faces and light up their eyes. They're laughing, she realizes, the pair in the picture. Laughing with a perfect joy that makes her want to be physically ill.

Mainly because she has never imagined any sort of world in which a Jane and a Loki could be happily, brilliantly, blindingly in love.

* * *

He opts for silence, as she rather suspected he would. His arms snake away from her, his movements exaggeratedly slow. He knows she's awake. She knows he knows. But he's a master at lies, and for once, she's eager to let him work his magic. She wants him to undo this, to take them back to a state of being where she didn't know that his arms could hold and his hands could touch and his… she really would rather forget that. That and how he managed to make her feel. She doesn't want to burn at the touch of a monster.

He slips from the bed and the mattress shifts. She hears his footsteps pad across the floor. She won't look. She tells herself she isn't even tempted. She'll never admit to anyone that she is. Never ever. She strains to hear every fragile sound; listens as a door closes with an echoing click. There's a pause, and then the sudden, rushing noise of water.

The bed feels suddenly empty as she listens to the shower run. A part of her hates that she feels faintly hurt. His urgent need to wash her off of his skin is a needle; a sharp counterpoint to the things she was feeling only minutes before. In a state of clinical detachment, she can admit that she wanted him. Wanted him for the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way his body curved around hers. Wanted the tension in the muscles of his arms and the way his traitorous breath ghosted across her ear in the second before she recognized it. The second she did recognize it. She smells him still. Leather and pine and magic have seeped right into the sheets she's tangled in.

She stands too quickly. A wave of light-headedness sweeps through her, and she can feel the sudden pressure of the spirit pulsing across her mind, checking her health and mental state. _I'm fine_, she growls through her head as she sits back down, her hands fisting in the sheets, _No thanks to you. A little warning, next time, maybe? A, 'Hey, Jane! The guy you're considering having sex with, the naked one next to you in bed? Yeah, that's Loki.' It'd save a lot of embarrassment. _

The spirit is silent for a moment. **Would that have been easier?** it asks finally. **Would it have made you happy? You had peace. You were content. You would have rather not had that moment?**

She indulges herself in despising the way the spirit knows her every thought and emotion. The way it can toss her own ideas back at her is infuriating at best, devastatingly painful at worst. She begrudges it its quiet curiosity most of all. It's questions are innocent. It truly doesn't comprehend that a perfect moment is perfectly diminished by the discovery that the arms that felt so loving and safe were anything but those things.

**But you are safe**, the spirit counters, **All the evidence suggests that you are safer with him than any other being you have known. **

_Any other being?_ Jane retorts.

**He is the only being in your memory who has consistently been there to ensure the continuation of your life**.

Jane swallows slowly, her tongue feeling suddenly thick in her throat. _In all my memory?_ she asks the spirit numbly. She plays through the pivotal moments of her life. The many times she has been let down by the people she has dared to love. Her heart aches as she stands, her hands heavily dragging the sheet from the bed and around her shoulders. The spirit doesn't lie to her about how she feels, she realizes.

**And in this reality,** the spirit begins.

_I don't want to know about this reality_, Jane spits back, her eyes straying over the bed this world's Jane shares, the photograph of the two impossibly happy people on the night table, the scattering of several more that line the dresser. She frowns, clutches the sheets more tightly around herself, and leaves the room.

The hallway she steps into is bright and airy. There is a line of photographs of the same two smiling people from the bedroom. She presses against a half-open door and finds herself in what seems to be an office. Degrees and diplomas line the walls. She mouths the syllables that spell out her name. Her fingertips trace the calligraphy. She turns to the other degrees, despairs as she matches the university that granted his third degree with her own. Her eyes dart away from the wall, trace over the scattered papers. Engineering papers scatter and collide with astrophysics. Data scrolls across the computer monitor she can see, and somehow, she wouldn't be surprised if the two laptops that sit closed upon the oversize desk are doing the same.

**I thought**, the spirit says drily into her mind**, that you did not wish to know about this reality?**

_I don't,_ Jane shivers, her hands clutching at the sheet she's wrapped around her body. _I really, really don't. _She stumbles out of the office, her eyes unfocussed as she considers what it might be like to have someone as brilliant as Loki working with her. To have someone as stubborn as Loki believing in her. To have someone who loved her, someone at her level understanding her crazy hopes and dreams…

She steps out into the hall, her feet taking her out into the living room where he stands so still he might as well be carved from stone. There's a towel wrapped almost carelessly around his hips, one hand holding it still. From where Jane stands, she can see his face in profile. His hair is almost unrecognizably short here, a mess of faintly tangled curls that shouldn't look as endearing as it does. His lips are pulled thin, halfway between a snarl and an expression of shock. His eyes stare hard at the glass picture frame he holds in his free hand, evidently removed from the centre position of the mantle that arches above a natural gas fireplace.

"We," his voice is quiet, bordering on fragile, "We're in love."

She flinches at his words, her feet jerking forward. "Don't be stupid," she snarls, her own frustrated anger bubbling to the surface, "You hate me. I hate you. It's all very simple."

He turns his head at that, emerald eyes blank as he regards her. "Of course," he says smoothly, "I was simply referring to this universe's versions of us."

"They aren't us," Jane says, her voice sounding almost unnecessarily cruel in her own ears.

He blinks, his eyes straying hopelessly back at whatever photograph he's settled upon. "Of course," he murmurs again, his tone distant and oddly considering.

There's a fury rising up within her. A sense of vicious unfairness. "What is it?" she demands, knowing that any of the photographs in this place could show the truth she so wants to deny. She's aching to know what makes this one worth his consideration. At the same time, she's dreading the knowledge.

He turns his gaze back to her. She tries to ignore the way his eyes slide down the sheets that cover her figure with the same sort of success that she's having with ignoring the way water droplets are dripping down from his dark, tangled hair onto the sinewy muscles of his upper arms. She won't even consider his bare chest, or the plains of his stomach, or the angles of his hips where they peek above the towel.

"See for yourself," he offers, his hand with its dangerous fingers spanning the distance between them. She sees the photo before the frame ever hits her own hand. Processes the clothing and the smiles and the angles in the same instant as she analyses the gleam of metal and the sparkle of diamond that sits upon her reaching hand. She pulls her hand back as if she's been burned, the blush in her cheeks deepening even as she sinks further into her indignant, self-righteous anger.

"Seriously?" she snaps, her eyes leaping to meet his own, demanding some sort of answer from him, though she logically knows he's as much a victim as she is in this universe edition of musical chairs.

"Seriously?" he parrots, his lips turning into a mocking sneer. "Is the concept of marriage so dangerously foreign to you, Doctor Foster?"

She sputters, feels the burning of her skin. "It isn't marriage that surprises me," she lies between her teeth, "It's the idea of being married to _you_!"

He scoffs derisively, his body already angled away from her again. He's marble and ice, and she suddenly, desperately wants to hurt him. Wants to rattle that façade and make him fall to pieces just once. It would only be the barest crumb of what she feels he has done to her.

"You know I could never love you," she says, the words hanging like knives in the air.

"I would expect no less," he tells her, his gaze moving across the pictures upon the mantle as he gently sets the glass frame back down. "Truthfully," he adds, his tone distant, "I am surprised that there is some version of myself deemed loveable in any universe."

"Any universe?" she mutters darkly, "Haven't you seen like half of them?"

His attention is sudden and alien as he closes the distance between them, his eyes glued suddenly to hers. He's too close now. A splash of water falls from his hair into her upturned face. She blinks at the startling wetness, but keeps her eyes fixed on his. "What," he begins slowly, his teeth bared in a way that reminds her of the wolf she's seen him as, "Has you believing that?"

She swallows hard. She's only too aware that this is not how she meant to explain her fears about the spirit in her head. She'd intended them to both be actually dressed, for one. "When you fell," she whispers, licking her suddenly dry lips, "From the Bifrost."

She watches his dark eyebrow arch, "And I suppose Thor informed you of that particular development?"

"No," she breathes, "He never said. I don't think he ever guessed… ever could have imagined." There's something disturbing about Loki's gaze in this moment. There's an accusation in his eyes, and a terrible vulnerability. She swallows again, her tongue feeling heavy and dry, "I don't think the void between worlds is part of the cosmology he…"

"Then how?" he demands, one hand suddenly darting between them and capturing her chin. He tips her face further up, peers into her eyes as if he can read the secrets of her soul in them, "How?"

**Jane**, the spirit brushes across her mind, **I don't believe this is the best way…**

"The spirit," she breathes, the words slipping from her like a secret, "It's in my head." The pressure in his fingertips increases, biting into her soft skin. "I let her in," she whispers, "I didn't know she could…"

"She?" he spits, his dark eyes glittering, "It has no gender. No concept of it."

Jane feels her jaw tighten, "She does now."

"And she," he sneers across the syllable, the pressure of his fingers lessening, "Has told you about my fate?"

"Not exactly," she says as calmly as she can. "I dreamed it. What she saw. In the void."

"So," he murmurs, dropping her chin finally with a twist of his wrist, "You've been keeping secrets, Jane?"

She stiffens at his words and forces the rubbing of her chin to look as natural as possible. "You're surprised?" she sends him a sullen glare. "How the hell was I supposed to know who to trust?"

A darker fury rises behind his eyes as his lips curl back into a snarl, "So you trust the dark spirit from the void more than you trust me? That is terribly good to know, Doctor Foster."

"I don't trust it now!" she exclaims, feeling the spirit's bewildered presence rear up as she lets the words escape her. Her conscious thoughts swim against the spirit's current of wounded feelings. "How can I?" she adds, her voice breaking. She speaking more to it now than to Loki. "After what it did?"

The fury in his eyes is turning to wary suspicion. "Jane?" he asks lowly.

**Jane?** the spirit moves across her thoughts, **What sort of choice did I have?**

"Why would I shoot someone?" she asks aloud, "I'm not that person. I don't shoot people. Not…"

"So this is about guilt?" Loki says, incredulity colouring his tone as he tilts his head at her.

**No**, the spirit agrees, **You don't shoot people. That's why I had to do what I did.**

"There's no justification for what you did," Jane hears herself say aloud. "You don't make people see things. You don't manipulate people and use them like…"

"Jane?" Loki demands, sudden urgency in his voice, "What are you talking about?"

"Not you," Jane runs a frustrated hand through her tousled curls, "Her." She looks everywhere but at him, fighting to sort the tangled emotions she feels. There's no separating one from the next. The lines are all blurred, and she isn't sure who is feeling more betrayed. She's breathing too fast. Thinking too hard. And it's all blurred. Her heart is beating out a fluttering staccato rhythm, her pulse jumping in her throat.

"Jane," he says in a voice that is too calm. His hands are steady on her shoulders, his emerald eyes staring down into hers, "Breathe."

Her thoughts fall still and she realizes that there are two minds staring out through her eyes and into his. Two beings that pause at his command. She swallows hard. "I saw you die," she says slowly, her voice quiet and steady. "I pulled the trigger because I thought you were dead."

"You thought," he begins. The words die on his lips as he stares down at her, astonishment in his eyes for the barest second before all emotion in them evaporates completely. His jaw tightens. The hands on her shoulders flex faintly, the barest movement squeezing her tense muscles almost painfully. "You reacted instinctively," he says, his voice distant and dismissive, "Self-defense is, I believe, still an acceptable excuse in your…"

"Self-defense?" she hears herself gasp incredulously, "I thought you were dead!"

"Thus leaving you unprotected," he concludes.

Her teeth grind against themselves as she stiffens. "I can guarantee I wasn't thinking about myself in that moment," she spits furiously, blind to the sudden twist in Loki's features at her words. His hands spring free of her shoulders as he moves the slightest bit backwards, one hand sliding over his hip to recapture his slipping towel. Jane lifts an arm, points an accusing finger, "And the worst part? You're missing the goddamn point!"

He blinks coldly at her, still too calm to her eyes. "I _saw_ you die," Jane pushes forwards, her fingertip hitting the cool marble of his bare chest. "I saw the bullet hit you. I saw you fall. I watched as the blood pooled out onto the floor." Her voice is rough in her ears, the spirit's raw emotions rubbing too hard against her own. "I saw all of that, because that is what she wanted me to see! And I acted because that is how she wanted me to act!" Her jaw is so tight it hurts, and though her vision is blurred, she refuses to admit to tears. "It wasn't my choice," she says, her voice shattering apart in the silence. Her hand splays flat across his chest. She stares at the sight of her fingers across his pale skin, her breath heaving. She swallows hard. "But I'd do it again," she whispers, realization hitting her painfully.

She pulled the trigger. She saw Loki die and she pulled the trigger. The spirit might have manipulated her, but she was free to act in whatever way she wanted to. And she chose to fire the gun. Not because she was afraid for her own life. Not for self-defense.

She looks up. He's looking down at her, his head cocked to the right as he analyzes her. There's an understanding in his eyes. A calm acceptance of the facts that she still hasn't properly laid out. But then again, she supposes, remembering his eyes when they were just too wild and too blue. His own words…

"You know…" she begins.

"Why would you…" he starts.

Their voices fall silent.

Jane drags her hand away from his chest, pulling it back into the warm curve of her own sheet-draped body. "Without you," she whispers, "I'm alone."

His emerald eyes shine in the strangest way. He stands very still for a moment, watching the hunch of her shoulders, the fear in her eyes. There's a second where she thinks he will turn and walk away. She lets her head fall as she begins to turn, her limbs feeling like lead.

He closes the distance between their bodies and wraps his arms around her in a single, seamless movement. There's no pause, only the sudden impact of her cheek with his chest and his face buried in the crown of her hair. He feels like a wild animal in her arms, his body tensed and ready. Ready for what, she can't say. Ready to run. Ready to attack. Ready to escape. She can't label it, this vibrating tension in his skin as it sits so close to hers.

His embrace seems like a snake-strike: dangerous and unexpected. Still, she's only half surprised that her own arms have curled back around him. Maybe it is instinct. Maybe its terror. All she knows is that she's trembling against him with her arms folded against the smooth, compact muscles of his lower back. And she's pulled herself too close to him. He's too close.

But he's all she has. And she suspects that sentiment goes both ways.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_Dear readers,  
_

_Thank you so much for your reviews - they were (each and every one of them) a delight. So I somehow managed to write an entirely new chapter in three days. I'll warn you not to get used to this.  
_

_With love,  
_

_Dreamflight_

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

Jane would be the first to admit that there was no graceful way to escape that particular situation. Not when the press of their bodies was the only thing keeping layers of fabric between their skin. Not when she would have had to meet his eyes after sharing that kind of painful confession. Not when she would have been forced to look at his cool, calculating expression with tears in her own eyes. Or worse, she muses, there could have been real feeling in his shadowed face. That possibility actually terrifies her more than those which involve her own mortification.

In a way then, she should have seen this coming. Stir together an awkward situation with a devious mind and unlimited magic, and it suddenly seems almost reasonable to do what he did. Reasonable for an insane sociopath, anyway.

Jane pulls the furred hood of her cloak closer around her head. She's almost gotten used to these jumps. She just regrets the fact that she's found herself in yet another icy wasteland. The cold, cold wind bites her cheeks and stings her eyes. She closes them for a brief moment, prying her freezing eyelashes apart again to open. She wonders if she should be relieved that she's human in this world, or if being a deer had offered her some measure of resistance against this sort of weather. She shivers as she contemplates whether that trade is worthwhile.

**No, its not**, the spirit tells her in sullen tones, **It was unbearable. **

_To you, perhaps, _Jane thinks back. She can feel the slide of the spirit's emotions across her own, its sense of betrayal scratching across what remains of her calm. The rough hide and fur of her poorly-stitched mittens rubs irritatingly across her face as she attempts to shove unruly bunches of her hair back into the warmth of her hood. Her frustration increases.

_Look_, she thinks irritably, _You can go ahead and feel betrayed all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you betrayed me first. I trusted you!_

**And you should trust me still**, the spirit parries back. **I did what I had to. You do realize that the fact that you fired the gun prevented what you saw from coming about?**

Jane freezes, even her shivers falling still. She stares blindly at the dark, snow-capped pines that surround her. _You mean_, she swallows hard, _I saved him?_

**We saved him**, the spirit corrects, **Without my actions you would never have fired, remember? **

There is a moment where Jane feels strangely, horribly grateful to the spirit. She can't quite find the right words or label the emotion, but it is there anyway, tangled in the memory of his arms wrapped tight around her, his breath in her ear. And then she shakes her head. She doesn't want to have saved the life of a murderer and a war criminal. And she hates him. Mostly. And though he's been almost shockingly level throughout all this, she knows from the wild shine of his eyes that he's still dangerously unhinged. But she needs him. Depends on him. Wants... she closes her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach.

**You're welcome**, the spirit chirps brightly.

_I hate you_, she thinks. There's no real feeling behind the thought beyond faint despair.

**You don't**, the spirit states, letting her feel the tendrils of itself that have rooted throughout her brain. **You don't hate him, either.**

_Shut up_, she winces, _If I say I hate him, I hate him. _

**For the record, I do not believe he hates you either. **

_That's ever so reassuring, _Jane tugs again at her fur-lined hood. Her hands and her feet are bitingly cold, even tucked into fur as they are. The heavy, wool skirt she wears is tangled around her ankles. She vaguely remembers an outfit not so different from this one. One worn for days. One accompanied by the sensation of Thor's strong arm around her and the sight of Loki's stiffened back. There's a sudden lump in her throat she can't quite explain.

**We can get back to your world**, the spirit whispers in a tone that sounds like only half of a lie, **One day, maybe. **

_Will we still fit into it, if we do?_ Jane replies, her feet already moving through the wet snow. _Did we fit into it when we left? _The spirit is quiet and still at that. _Did we_, Jane begins, her heart sinking as she wraps her head around what she feels, _Did we fit into that world at all? Ever? _

The spirit is quiet for a long time. **I do not belong to any world, Jane**, it says finally, **But you? You seem to belong to a great many of them. **

_And Loki?_

The spirit hesitates. **He belongs**, it begins before the words trail off. The spirit sighs, **You may not like the answer. **

_There's a lot of things I don't like_, Jane thinks stubbornly, _Having things kept from me is one of them. _

**Loki belongs wherever he wants to belong**, the spirit says finally, **And he cannot belong where he does not wish to.**

_Really? _Jane shakes her head, _You're going to choose now to start talking in riddles?_

**It is no riddle**, the spirit tells her heavily, **It is simply the nature of his magic. It is how he survives so impossibly where he should not. It is how he came to grow up among the Aesir. And it is why he can find no peace now. **

_Right_, Jane thinks, hopping awkwardly over a fallen tree. Her skirt catches and she fights the tangled cloth with her heavy mitts. _Nowhere is good enough for him, huh?_

**Is that what you truly believe?** the spirit asks her wonderingly. It ruffles through her thoughts like the pages of a book, sending Jane's nerves into a confused fever. Her hands seize and flex, and she topples from where she is balanced over the rough-barked log.

"Ow!" she barks into the frosty air, "Damnit, watch what you're doing!" She huffs, feeling cold snow creep soak into the heavy fabric of the skirt, _You can at least give me a warning before you go and short-circuit my brain._

**Hush, Jane**, the spirit whispers in the same moment that Jane hears the deep, hungry growl from the forest. The soft crunch of snow being crushed by heavy steps gives Jane direction and she swivels her head to stare into the forest's darkened shadows.

_You can hear what I hear_, Jane thinks at the spirit, _And you see what I see. Do you feel what I feel too? Are you cold? Do you feel the snow melting into this skirt? Do you feel the scrape on my knee like its your knee? How much of me have you woven yourself into?_

**Focus**, the spirit barks against her mind, far more wary than she could ever be, **You must hide, Jane. Under the log.**

_Why? _Jane thinks back. _My footsteps lead right here. Anything intelligent could put two and two together. And an animal would simply smell me out. _

**You have no survival skills!** the spirit rails against her.

_And you only care because you're increasingly locked into my life, _Jane spits. _You're every bit as manipulative as…_

**Shut up!**

The words echo inside her head as Jane feels her breath fall shallow in her chest. There is movement behind the close-pressed boughs of the pine trees before her. The dark shadows of the forest press inwards and Jane sees a flash of something in a darker shade of blue. Another flash, and she still needs a moment to process what she sees.

The frost giant brushes past the branches of the pines as if they are nothing, its bright red eyes staring fixedly upon her. A guttural snarl escapes its twisted, dark lips. Despite the frozen landscape, it wears little beyond a rough hide loincloth. A bow and quiver peek from beyond the hefty slant of its shoulder. Its blue-toned skin is littered with both the raised markings of its kind and paler, arcing lines of scars. For a moment, its gaze is locked with Jane's; herself a tiny, tousled heap of furs lying upon the snow.

"Slave," it grinds out, striding forward with purpose. With one hand, he pulls a curved horn from his side, bringing it to his lips and sounding three flat calls out into quickly-falling evening.

Jane tries to struggle to her feet, the now wet skirt hampering her movements. The spirit has grown unhelpfully silent, wary disappointment bleeding through its presence. A whine of frustration escapes Jane's lips, and she feels, more so now than under the gaze of wolves, what it is to be prey.

"Cease your fumbling," the giant growls, free hand descending and wrapping itself in the loose furs of Jane's cloak. With one effortless pull, she is on her feet, staring upwards uneasily. "You have given us quite the chase, little one," the giant continues with curled lips, "It is a shame that the punishment for running away is so very harsh."

Jane sets her jaw and stares up at the creature with as much bravado as she can force. "I am no one's slave," she says, her voice wavering only slightly under the giant's violent gaze.

"Oh ho," it laughs, "Is that so, little one?" The heavy hand that pulled her to her feet tightens upon the fur of her cloak and lifts her easily off her feet until her gaze is level with its own. Staring directly into those red eyes, she is startled by the intelligence there. "Such spirit," the giant rumbles, "I would that it could be found among the females of our own kind."

"So," Jane says, as calmly as she can, dangling several feet into the air as she is, "I guess you're a male frost giant, then?"

The giant laughs again, louder this time. Jane's entire frame shakes with the force of it. "You are truly a delight, little slave," he rumbles, "Would that I could keep you for a pet."

"I'm not a pet," Jane mutters stubbornly.

"Oh no?" the giant laughs again, "And you would have me believe that you could care for yourself in this ice and this snow with no Jotun to protect you? Your kind are so frail, so sensitive to the cold."

"We got through the Ice Ages just fine," Jane snips back. She's dimly bewildered by the fact that she can be so calm with the fabric of her clothes tightening at her throat, and her furred boots hanging in the air. The giant's red eyes stare down into her, and his savage features are sending dim warnings down her nerves that her tongue still seems unable to comprehend. She could die. Right now, right here. The giant could close a fist around her ribs and she'd be done.

She'd be done.

The thought echoes through her head, foreign and more vividly dangerous than the giant holding her. She feels the spirit's presence halted by the idea. Held frozen in shock and confusion. It has no concept of mortality. No way to measure just how dangerous this sudden concept of surrender truly is. But for the first time, Jane has a glimpse of what the spirit wants. And it wants to not die.

There's a sudden pressure in her skull, a flexed seizure of her hands, and again, the terrible, confused flooding of her nervous system as the spirit tries to hijack control of her brain.

"No!" Jane screams, interrupting the giant's unheard words. Her hands fly to her head, "No! No, you won't! I won't let you! You don't get to…" She fights the pressure, beating back against the spirit's presence and wrestling for control of her senses. "I am me!" she cries in desperation.

The moment of impact is unexpected, but Jane seizes the advantage. She's beyond fearing the giant or gravity or death. Her sole focus now is on fighting to keep hold of herself: her identity, her thoughts, her feelings. They all flow too close to the spirit now, each threatening the borders of the other. And now, in this moment, she fights for control of her very self.

**Fine! **the spirit cries, **I am only trying to help!**

"Help in a different way then!" Jane screams. Her face is strangely wet, her throat like sandpaper, and the world is decidedly dark.

She opens her eyes. The frost giant is staring at her with horror in his eyes. He's taken a step back from her since letting her fall to the snowy ground. His hands are raised as if to protect himself from her. "Are you mad?" he gasps, his rough voice rasping over the words, colouring them with a fear she would not have expected a giant could feel. "Or be you possessed?" he continues, bright eyes haunted.

"Possessed?" Jane croaks, intending a question. She realizes halfway through the second syllable that this is, in fact, exactly what she is. Possessed by a dark spirit from within the void who has just attempted to seize control of her entirely.

**Did not**, the spirit mutters sullenly, **You simply refuse my aid. **

"I'm possessed," Jane gasps in surprise. The truth is finally sinking in through her thick skull. The spirit is not a friend, or a helpful guide, or a figment of her imagination. It's an entirely separate being that has been shoved in alongside her own. A being with separate ideas and separate values and separate motives. A being that is following along her own line of thought right now and reaching the same, inevitable conclusion: they are trapped here, melting and sliding ever closer into each other. And if this is true, if they are becoming one being, then it does not necessarily need to be Jane calling the shots. After all, in time, the spirit will be Jane too.

Jane sits back heavily in the snow. She stares emptily at the giant, who stares back at her with a blank sort of terror. Inside, the spirit has grown equally still. There are no secrets here, inside of a single skull. Not when the spirit is riding the biochemistry of Jane's own brain to exist.

**I want to live**, the spirit admits softly.

_How can you?_ Jane feels numb, _The more you live of my life, the less of me there will be._

**You gave freely before**.

Jane tastes the foolishness of her actions with an almost bitter sharpness. In her loneliness, in her curiosity, she had indeed opened herself to the spirit. She had thrown open the gates and handed the spirit the keys to every deep, dark part of her. She had invited the presence and its stream of emotional consciousness. She hadn't questioned its motivations or its desires or its strength. _Impulsive_, she condemns herself. She doesn't even try to feel bad about her sudden wish to have Loki near. He, at least, has some small understanding of these things. And maybe he can't fix it, but at least… at least someone would know her before she lost herself completely.

**You're being melodramatic**.

"Possessed," the giant shakes his head, his gaze looking everywhere but directly at her, but never truly letting her form escape his sight. His fear is palpable.

"I can't hurt you," Jane says dully. She's aware of the cosmic irony in her comforting and reassuring the fearsome monster that had hunted her down, likely with every eventual intent of hurting her. "It's in my head," she continues, "It doesn't control me, yet."

The last syllable falls like a stone into her heart: yet. The spirit does not control her, yet. Implying that one day, no matter how far from now it might be, the spirit will control her.

**You assume I'd keep control. Do you really think I would lock you inside your own brain? I am not evil.**

Jane shifts, struggles against the folds of her skirt, and rises to her feet. She feels indescribably exhausted. The frost giant has backed another step away from her, his broad, bare back now brushing against the pines through which he had come.

**Besides, based on the closeness of our experiences, I believe it would be more of a melding. Neither of us would have singular control...**

"Because neither of us would exist anymore," Jane whispers aloud, "Not as we were."

**And would this not be an improvement?**

Jane lifts her hand and rubs the tears from her face with the rough hide of her mitten. _What are you planning on doing? _she asks finally. _More killing? Take control of the world? Make me into a monster?_

There is the briefest flash of fear in the spirit. **No**, it stutters, **No, never. Why would I want those things? What have I done to make you believe that I am anything like… **The spirit's thought runs cold. Jane chases it, ruthlessly stumbling towards the truth.

_I told you_, she threatens, _I don't like having things kept from me._

**Do not do this, Jane**, the spirit rushes, pushing her out from the thoughts that run parallel to her own. **The walls are so thin already. If you truly wish to remain separate, you cannot simply brush them away. It is dangerous for you…**

_Too bad_, Jane snarls, pushing forward again. _I let you in. Now you get to return the favour. _

* * *

The history of the universe is long and mostly dark. Multiply it across a hundred billion dimensions, send it scattered across every possible choice and outcome, and you get more darkness than a single soul should ever have to bear. But souls do bear it. The souls of the spirits that live in the spaces between the worlds, between the possibilities. They watch in horror and joy and pleasure and pain as civilizations rise and fall, as galaxies collide, as life explodes into existence and extinguishes itself the very next moment. They watch for eternity, until their own complex and advanced forms of sentience fall fragile under the weight of it. They long to be a part of it, to enter into that flow of life and living and to share, fully and truly, in the pain and the joy. Or, they grow detached and distant.

The spirit that is at least partly tangled with Jane's psyche is the first of these. It has longed to know what it is to truly live, to fight for what one believes in, to act according to one's feelings. It had, of course, long ago given up on such impossible dreams. And then there was Jane. Jane, with her wondrous mind filled with its fully tangible biochemical pathways primed for language, for creation and invention, and perhaps most importantly, for feeling.

And the spirit _feels_. It _feels_ and it _acts_. Or at least, it pushes Jane into acting as Jane feels. And more and more, the spirit feels what Jane feels. Or perhaps Jane feels what the spirit feels. It is a lovely coherence amongst the incoherence of the existence they have jointly stumbled into. The two of them and Loki, handsome and brilliant and clever and confusing, on this wonderful, strange adventure, tasting a hundred lives and still somehow living their own. It is everything that the spirit has longed for. This is a gift. The greatest gift it can imagine. It does not want this to end.

_This is a game to you?_ Jane's consciousness swims through the tides of the spirit's memory. _This is…. This is not a game. This isn't a wonderful adventure. This is… _

Everything the spirit has ever wanted. Its just not that complex. It has no lofty goals or dreams of reorganizing the universe into logical, precise pieces. It has no obsession with order. It is a creature of chaos; it takes joy from the unexpected and pain from destruction. It hurt when it painted the picture across Jane's mind of Loki falling, of his blood upon the floor. It hurt when Jane pulled the trigger. It ached for Jane's pain. It mourned the life that was so unnecessarily lost. If only it had not threatened the creatures the spirit loves…

_You… love… _Jane's thoughts are slow, weighted by her slog through thoughts and memories that until now have not belonged in mortal bindings. She presses deeper, and the spirit feels the shiver that runs through the body they share.

The spirit has seen so much. The rise and fall of a hundred million civilizations. The swath of bleak, empty dimensions where nothing ever coalesced or existed at all. The legions of worlds where all has been laid to waste and ruin. The perfect, sterile order of worlds ruled by purer powers. The rise of the Realm Eternal in a million worlds. The every failure and every success of the All-Father, of Jane's own race, of beings greater and stranger than even the spirit itself. All of eternity past, all of the worlds that have existed yet, all of the possibilities that have existed so far. Eons of impossible data written into a memory that defies physical reality.

Jane can become lost in that. Her mortal mind is too fragile, too small, to contain the immensity of this. She feels too deeply, too suddenly, to carry all the pain and the joy. _But_, she persists, the thought frail, _But you aren't anything like…_

The spirit trembles.

**Thanos**, it whispers, **I am nothing like Thanos. **

* * *

When Jane wakes, she has the fleeting sensation that she has grown ancient. Her body is heavy, her pulse sluggish and pounding in her head. It takes her a small eternity to move her arm. It takes an even longer time to struggle upwards until she sits upon the pallet on which she rests. She still wears the heavy woolen garments she remembers, though her boots and her cloak have been removed. She recalls the terror in the frost giant's eyes.

_He was right_, she thinks to the spirit, _to fear us._

**It is different for us.**

_Still_, Jane wiggles her fingers as she considers the heavy weight of what she has glimpsed. She sighs, _Still._

The spirit moves uneasily against her. **You should not have gone so deep**, it thinks, **It is dangerous. Your mind is not large enough to contain so much memory. You ran the risk of losing yourself. Or your sanity. **

Jane blinks and turns her head to take in her surroundings. She feels the prick of what might be straw beneath her. A fire casts orange light upon strangely slanted walls. She reaches out, and her fingers meet with well-smoothed hide. She rests in what seems to be a tent made from animal hides.

"You're awake," an elderly voice says softly.

Jane turns her gaze back to the fire. Beside it sits an old woman, her face lined with deep-set wrinkles and dark, quick eyes. The woman lifts a spoon and stirs a pot, her eyes never leaving Jane's form.

"They say," the woman begins, her tone conversational, "That you are possessed."

"They?" Jane croaks.

The old woman clucks her tongue and rises slowly. She gathers some sort of drinking vessel in her stiffened hands and hobbles to Jane's side. "Here, dear," she murmurs, "It is only water, but I believe that may be all you can stomach at the moment."

Jane accepts, taking a deep sip of the cool liquid. She relishes the smooth flow down her throat and relaxes into the simple motion of swallowing the cool liquid. Her eyes drift shut, and she can see the brilliant expanse of stars, of worlds destroyed and worlds reborn. She gasps and sputters, her eyes fluttering open as the water splashes across her.

**Too much**, the spirit comments unhappily, **You looked at too much.**

The old woman stares at her, her thin lips pulled tight. "Is it possession?" she mutters, as if to herself.

"They?" Jane prompts again.

The old woman waves a hand, "Pfah. The hunters. The one that found you rambled about possession. By the time the others had joined him, you had already collapsed."

Jane swallows, "Others?"

The old woman sighs. She lines her gaze up with Jane, "I'll tell you what I believe," she confides, "I believe that you thought that dying alone out in the ice wastes would be a better fate than the one you have been burdened with. I believe that you thought that if you were caught, they would enact the sentence before they discovered the truth."

"The truth?" Jane parrots, feeling dull and overwhelmed as her head spins with the stars.

"It was one of them, wasn't it?" the old woman presses, settling on the edge of Jane's pallet, "No one likes to speak of it here, but it is not so unheard of in the more southern climes."

"Here?" Jane feels completely lost. "Where am I, even?"

The old woman gathers up her hand, clucking her tongue again. "You should accept your fate," she counsels, kindness and strength in her eyes. "The bigger ones won't even try to take a human woman, but the smaller ones… well. They aren't so bad. And if you've survived it once, you can survive it again. And children are so rare in their society. They are precious. They value a mother."

Jane stares at the old woman, alien ideas pressing against her. "You're saying I'm pregnant," she murmurs flatly.

The old woman pats Jane's hand, "A woman always knows the truth of her own body."

_Is it true? _she asks the spirit.

There is a moment of hesitation. **There is**, the spirit begins, **A faint sense of future presence…**

"A frost giant got me pregnant," Jane says. The words are just sound in air, but the story they spell out seems impossible. It's entirely unreal to her. Just another strange and foreign life where impossible things happen. She's weary of it all now. Each of these lives and every one of her petty worries about herself feels insignificant in the face of what she's seen in the spirit's mind. So many worlds and so many of them lost. So many lives that her own seems tiny and meaningless in comparison.

**Jane?** the spirit prods, **Your life is not without meaning. No life is without meaning. **

_I'm a frost giant's whore in this one_, she thinks, _Are you trying to justify this existence too?_

**Focus on the details**, the spirit begs, **Stop looking at just the big picture. The details are where the battles are won and lost. **

"Battles," Jane mutters, shaking her head. _Haven't we had enough of battles by now?_

"What's that, dear?" the crone asks, her head lifting to fix Jane with its soft, grey gaze.

Jane shakes her head again, "Nothing." She swallows hard, meeting the old woman's soft gaze, "How can you make it sound like its alright to have a frost giant's child?"

The old woman huffs, "You would think that a thousand years after their conquest, we might all get to figuring out that we're all just fools trying to live our lives as best as we can. If you stand to get a crumb of respect and better treatment, if you have a ghost of a chance of pulling yourself out of slavery, you take it, girl! You take it and you forge a way forward for all of us!"

Jane stares at the old woman for a long time. Her mouth feels dry again. "I have a purpose," she breathes, "I matter even in this crappy life."

**You matter in every life**, the spirit insists.

Jane closes her eyes. She watches worlds spin. She tastes the spirit's concern, even as her own begins to fade away. She will be alright. She and the spirit. This is just one of a hundred thousand possibilities.

"Jane!"

She opens her eyes. She knows the voice, searches for its owner. She knows him so well now. A hundred thousand histories she can't quite recall, but she knows he is a part of so very many of them. The man who has entered the tent is tall, but not so much taller than the Loki she knows. The raised marks on his body throw shadows across his blue skin in the flicker of the fire's flames. A fur-lined cape hangs from his shoulders, a cousin to the one she had worn earlier herself.

"Your highness!" the old woman cries, falling to her knees from the pallet.

Jane's gaze darts between the old woman and Loki. She watches his dismissive glance flash over her, the title apparently falling on deaf ears. His red eyes search through the shadows, finding and snagging upon her. She holds his gaze as he clears the distance between them in one long step. He falls to one knee by her side, one strong, blue hand clinging to the edge of the pallet. "Jane?" he asks again.

"It's you," she hears herself whisper with a hint of mad laughter in her breath, "It's always you." The old woman, forgotten now, slips out from the tent.

She sees the details. Sees a hundred thousand intertwined lives. And its terrible. And its beautiful. Because he always exists where she does. Always either a part of her life, or only the smallest footstep away from it. Only the missed opportunities fail to bring them into each others lives.

"That's why," she hears herself say, "That's why you saved me." She's laughing now. Laughing at the confusion that is somehow familiar in this unfamiliar face of his. "You saw… oh, you saw everything." His eyes are almost comically wide, and it is so strange to see them in red rather than their bright, familiar green. "And you might not remember it all," she continues, one hand settling down upon his own, "I definitely don't. I don't think its possible. I don't think that a brain can physically handle it all. That's what the spirit was trying to tell me. It's too much, and then you can't sort it all out. And then you just get flashes of it. Pieces and bits and feelings. I'm right, aren't I?"

He isn't looking at her anymore. His head has tilted downwards, eyes focused on where her hand is touching his. "Loki?" she asks, "I'm still talking?"

"You," his voice is unnaturally smooth, even coming out of a frost giant's lungs. He stops, the single syllable having been an effort. "How?" he demands finally, his eyes suddenly and fiercely upon hers.

"We realized that I'm inevitably going to end up as part of the spirit," Jane says, her mirth dying on her tongue, "And that she will end up part of me. So I made her show me her memories, like I showed her mine."

He blinks incomprehensibly at her. "I meant," he begins slowly, turning his gaze back down to where her bare hand rests on his, "How are you touching this form without becoming frozen?"

Jane stares down at where her hand has settled so naturally upon his. Her skin looks very pink beside the dark blue of his own. She looks back up at him. "What are you talking about?" she says finally. "How the hell could you have gotten me pregnant if you weren't able to touch me?"

His hand pulls out from under hers like a lightning strike. His entirely body becomes instantly stiff, held so much further away from hers than it has been. His eyes search her own, the ghost of pain written around them. "What," he licks his thin lips with a tongue as strangely blue as the rest of him, "Are you saying?"

"The old woman said," Jane says in a hushed murmur, "She said it happened. That…" Her mouth stops finding words as she watches him, realizing only now that he has no idea how this form works. That he finds this form, his true form, more alien and impossible than the form of a wolf or a cat. And she feels, with all the feeling of two beings, impossibly sad for him. He's still watching her with suspicion in his eyes. "Here, in this world," she pauses, licking her own lips as she struggles to find the words, "I'm yours. I belong to you. And somehow, however the mechanics of it work, I'm pregnant. And, its yours. I…"

**She has his magic,** the spirit supplies.

"She has your magic," she repeats, hearing herself parrot the words without really processing them. Red eyes glare at her accusingly. "The spirit told me," she says reflexively, wondering at how exactly magic is supposed to be hereditary, "Do you really think I'm capable of thinking up that kind of lie?"

His gaze softens, "No," he says softly, "I suppose you are not."

For a moment, he hovers indecisively. Then, without warning, he pulls himself onto the edge of the pallet on which she still sits. He asks no permission, simply reaches for her and pulls her close, one hand settling upon her lower stomach. His eyes drift closed.

She sits very still, knowing that she should protest. That she should bark out in anger at this manhandling of her body, of this invasion of her space. But she knows how his body feels against hers. She knows (because how could she possibly forget?) how his lips feel against her own. And she wonders if this body feels different. If these lips kiss differently. And she doesn't even care that he's killed people.

Because it's always him. He's always there. And if he isn't, he's supposed to be. She can see that now. Down in the details.

"Loki," she whispers, her voice dragging roughly over the syllables. He opens his eyes; that strange, red gaze staring at her with a raw vulnerability she doesn't recognize.

"She's mine," he says after a moment, his voice hoarse with something new. Awe, maybe, or wonder. He straightens, pulls his hand away from her, and clears his throat. "She is mine," he says again, his voice teetering towards clinical.

And that is the fragile moment when Jane realizes that the spirit is terribly, horribly right in saying that she doesn't hate him. She reaches her hand back out and captures his own. She watches as he stares wonderingly down at their joined hands, bewildered confusion written across his face. "Loki," she tugs on his hand gently until he meets her eyes. She bites her lip, taking in again the strange blue skin and the raised scars and markings that scatter across his skin. "You aren't a monster," she says finally, firmly.

His eyes widen. For a moment he is still. "You would like to believe that," he says after a long time. "And if you have seen what you claim…" he trails off as his eyes grow distant. They harden, and his grip upon her hand tightens, "Just remember, Jane," he says in bitter tones, "That we are not who we are in these other worlds. I must be judged for my own choices."

"But..." Jane begins.

"No," he insists, "There are no excuses for being a villain, dear Jane." He leans in closer, his forehead brushing across hers. For a moment, Jane feels a strange tightening in her chest. He's blue, with burning red eyes, and he's radiating cold, and still she finds herself wanting him closer. "Besides which," he continues, his voice smooth as silk, "You could never love me, remember?"

She half expects the jump this time. He's good at avoiding the part where you actually finish conversations.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_A/N: Alright, as far as I'm concerned, this is the chapter that really begins to take us down the rabbit hole… do you trust me?_

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

Jane opens her eyes slowly. She licks her chapped lips with a dry tongue. The air is heavy with the taste of ash and dust. The sky is a dirty yellowed sort of grey, and clouds of charcoal smoke drift across it. She breathes shallowly, her gaze dancing over the ruined hulks of concrete and broken glass. Flames lick their way across twisted steel girders, flaring as they hungrily search out the flammable pieces of a city left broken.

"They really don't leave much, huh?" Darcy's voice is dull beside her. The words are right, but the bright, biting energy is gone. Jane turns to her friend, absorbing the worn jeans she wears that are somehow shredded at both knees, the dirty t-shirt, the limp, filthy sweater. Her dark hair has been hastily tied back with a worn hair elastic. The clumps that have slid free are lank and greasy. Her own scalp itches.

"The Chitauri," she hears herself say. _But this is not New York…_

**No**, the spirit agrees, **This is beyond New York.**

"One more dead city," a bitter, old man's voice says behind them, "How many more are they going to feel the need to take?"

"As many as it takes," Jane murmurs, "And perhaps a few more."

"As many as it takes," the voice repeats, turning gruff. "And we're supposed to keep fighting? I heard Norway gave in. Not a single sidewalk damaged!"

At her side, Darcy sniffs, "Right. Not a sidewalk damaged. But a whole country on its knees to a puffed up alien."

"A god," Jane whispers, "He's a god."

"Alien," Darcy barks, her voice turning hoarse, "God. Its semantics."

"Is it?" Jane continues to gaze at the burning rubble.

"Well, ladies," the gruff voice grates out, "Ruins of Atlanta will be there forever. Us, we're just getting old."

Jane finally turns. She meets the gaze of the gruff-voiced man, "Would you really rather surrender?" She watches him shuffle from one foot to another, his camouflage jacket slipping slightly on his broad shoulders as he shrugs.

"Damn," the man says finally, running a hand over his graying beard, "I dunno, Jane. If the Avengers couldn't beat this, if the government can't…"

The spirit shifts strangely in her head and then suddenly there are words in her mouth, "Why fight then? Why not join Norway? Isn't it easier to kneel than to fight?"

_What the hell_… she begins to think, her hands fisting as her jaw tightens in frustrated fury.

"Shit, Jane," the man looks fully ashamed now, "I don't mean that. I'd never mean that. We're damned Americans. We don't kneel."

"Especially not to deranged aliens," Darcy adds acerbically.

"But why not?" She can feel her lips move; can follow the motions of her tongue. But she's powerless to stop the words. The spirit has questions it wants to ask.

The man takes a deep breath, his forehead crinkling as his eyes meet hers. "Because we believe in freedom, in self-determination, in liberty. Because we've worked too damn hard to give it all up now." He stands a little straighter and knocks off a sloppy salute, "Because we've got you to remind us of that."

"It would be easier to stop fighting," she hears the spirit say in her own voice.

"Easy don't mean nothing," the man replies, his eyes shining as if he believes he's passing some sort of test, "Easy ain't American."

**Interesting**, the spirit remarks, shifting again within her head. **I suppose you must be some sort of leader. **

_I suppose?_ Jane rails, _I want to know what the hell you think you were doing…_

**We have been through this, Jane**, the spirit replies calmly, its voice curling possessively around the corners of her brain. **We are inevitably becoming one, single being. The questions I asked may have been mine, but the logic I used to inspire his affirmations is yours. You began with a rhetorical question about surrender. I sensed your intentions and supplied the line of questioning that would accomplish the goal which you originally desired. To remind that surrender is not preferable. That it is better to fight than to kneel. **

For a moment, Jane is left entirely off-balance. _But_, she begins, the thoughts moving sluggishly through her_, You understand that I need to fight you, right? I can't… kneel. _A wave of agitation passes through her, and she's helpless to decide whether it is her own emotion or one she has inspired in the spirit.

**I do not ask you to kneel, Jane. I have only ever asked you to let me in. **

"Jane?" Darcy's voice cuts through the noise in her head and the rushing of her blood in her ears.

She shakes her head and looks at Darcy. She sees her friend. Sees the girl who is still her friend in so many different versions of the world. Sees the girl who isn't always a girl. "Darcy," she begins to say, losing the train of thought before she can say the words.

Darcy cocks her head slightly, "You okay?"

Jane's lips move without her conscious choice once more, "I'm glad you're here."

Inside her skull, Jane deflates. She can't figure out if the spirit has caught her thought and supplied the words for her, or if it feels the same sentiment, or if it has stolen that from her too.

**And what about the things you have stolen from me?**

Jane shrinks again.

* * *

They sleep on worn-out cots in an emergency shelter that has obviously been in use for much longer than it was intended to be. There's a pocket of SHIELD agents, dressed in battered black riot armour rather than black suits. They are huddled together in a far corner, their eyes glued to the precious thing that this world's Jane has brought to them. A weapon. A glorious and terrible weapon.

She feels surprisingly little about all this. She's in a world locked in a war that borders on slaughter. A war that Loki has brought, fueled by personal hurts and the gripping mind control of an alien more powerful than he is. A war that has somehow made her into a general, simply because they are at war with creatures that travel through space with wormholes, and she is one of the only people who has ever really studied them.

Jane scratches her head fiercely and shuffles herself around on the narrow cot. She feels very little about the war. She feels a lot more about the plan that is being cooked up in the far corner. _They want to kill Loki_, she thinks. There is a can of worms here she needs to open up.

**They will not succeed**, the spirit hums confidently. **And we will simply use that failure as the opportunity to jump out from this world.**

_And then what happens to this world?_

The spirit falters slightly. **I… do not know. I know of what has been, not of what has yet to happen. **

_Wouldn't it_, she begins to think, and it hurts to think it, _Wouldn't it be better if they did succeed? The weapon. You know it would only take a few tweaks. You knowing is how I know… we could make it so it would work. _

The spirit is silent for a long time, but Jane can feel the emotions as they wash over her. Hurt, fear, fury, regret, and under it all, something possessive and sharply painful. **You would let us be trapped here? **It isn't what the spirit wants to ask her. It isn't even close. She can feel how very fake the spirit's disinterest is.

_You wouldn't let them kill him. You kept him alive. You say we need him… _Jane's eyes are wide open in the dark. There's a lump in her throat that she can't quite swallow around, but she's finally got it figured out. Finally put together the pieces and the strange, soft emotions that have gotten only stronger. _How long have you loved him?_

Jane can taste the bitter wave of feeling that the spirit is choking on. She lacks the reasons Jane has to hate him. She understands how impossible he is, how wondrous and rare his abilities are. She has loved him since he broke through the walls of the void and somehow, impossibly, survived there. He is her poor, brilliant, bitter green. And she had thought him lost forever.

Jane rolls onto her side, eyes still forced open and wide. She feels what the spirit feels. She can reach out and touch the spirit's thoughts. She's drowned in her memories. And she's cursed by all of it. Because she knows she should hate him. She knows he is a crazed sociopath, that he doesn't understand the value of mortal lives, that he is entirely unrepentant. She knows he is capable of being a monster, even if her own words have claimed otherwise. She knows that he is bitter and twisted and broken and brilliant.

But she will never know if she loves him. Not when the spirit feels it so keenly and now, so openly, that she finds it hard to breath around the emotion. Not when the lines between Jane and the spirit are becoming so fine and so blurred that Jane can't tell their feelings apart anymore. Can't tell if she's held his hand because she's wanted to or because the spirit has wanted to. Can't tell if she wants him because of who he is or if she wants him for all the versions of him she has spied in the memories of the spirit, in all the lives they might have had.

She'll never know.

She'll just feel.

Jane closes her eyes, and the stars dance mockingly for her. She's losing herself. Somehow, she's even more terrified by what she might be gaining.

* * *

In the end, they'll use her as bait. It's a well-known fact that Thor still lives. The SHIELD agents claim that he's teamed up with a group of mutants in Melbourne, and that Australia has so far been safe from the attacks of the Chitauri.

It doesn't bother her. Not the part where she's bait. Not the part where Thor is busy protecting some other part of the world where she isn't. Not the part where the SHIELD agents are looking at her with soft, guilty eyes from behind their dark sunglasses. She's moved past her anger and frustration with Thor's need to save everyone, even at cost to her. She was never, could never, be the centre of his world.

Loki, though, is trapped. The agents believe he will come to capture her to use as a weapon against Thor. She knows he will come because the threads of his being are wrapped close around hers. They are bound, perhaps, by all the travels through the void. By the fact that they require each other to do so. By something more, maybe.

She's taking one last look over the weapon. It's a super-charged energy field generator, designed to emit a signal that will, if the math is right, interact with the power of the tesseract. A portal should be forced open, leading out into the most terrifying portion of space that human science can identify: the black hole at the centre of the galaxy. There's a nuke too, just in case. And the whole kit and caboodle is powered by the brightest arc reactor she can imagine.

"I miss Tony," Darcy says at her elbow, her tone coloured with tired loss. "And Pepper. Those two were great." Jane listens as Darcy swallows hard. "Really great," she whispers, her voice hoarse and cracked.

Her eyes are on the weapon, on the programmed numbers. She knows… the spirit knows… they know that this could never catch him. He could be gone by the time the portal has opened. He could slip sideways through the wormhole walls before he ever gets to the destination. They could change that though. A few alterations to the code. Pump up the gravity well. Throw in a splash of magic.

_A splash of magic?_ Jane thinks in awe.

**Together, **the spirit agrees, **Yes. **

"How many have we lost?" she whispers traitorously.

Darcy blinks, "Millions. Billions, maybe. Whole countries went dark. We have no way of knowing."

Jane shakes her head, her eyes watering as she and the spirit consider the data. "Who?" she breathes, her eyes never leaving the device.

Darcy is silent for a moment. "Tony," she begins, "Pepper. Steve. Natasha. Clint. Bruce." Her voice takes a flinty edge, as if she has spoken this list many times. "Frank. Trevor. Angel. Hope. Bobby. Alison. Lexi." She pauses, "Grandma. Dad. Mom." There's a momentary silence after the wobble of her voice on the last. "Lauren. Tomi. Sam. O'Neil. Cassidy. Tyson. Anette. Yen." She takes a heavy breath, "Eric."

Jane's hands fist involuntarily. She doesn't know most of these names. They mean nothing to her, though it is evident that they mean everything to Darcy. As much as Eric means to her still. "How long," she begins, her voice failing her, "How long have we been doing this?"

"Nearly three years," Darcy sighs. "All that time wasted trying to get out of Norway, back to the States… And then all the fights we had to have just to get through the lab doors." There's a tired, aching rage in Darcy's voice, "If they'd just put you on the project in the first place, or brought you somewhere useful instead of hiding you." She turns, and for the first time, Jane lifts her head from the weapon. Darcy's shoulders are shaking. Silent sobs wrack her body.

"Darcy," she whispers, reaching out and settling a hand down upon her shoulder.

She shakes her head in reply. "I just… I'm sorry… I do this every time, don't I? I just wish…"

Jane pulls her friend into a hug, ignoring the stale smoke smell trapped in her dark hair, and the grimy feel of their clothes. "I'm so sorry, Darcy," she murmurs.

"Why?" she says finally, pulling away and rubbing her nose with her sleeve, "S'not like its your fault. I mean, I guess if we hadn't helped Thor get his god-ness back, then Loki'd still be up there being someone else's problem. But," she laughs bitterly, "Who knows? Maybe then he'd just have a bigger, better-looking army." She sighs, "I'm just… glad this is the last time."

Jane looks from Darcy to the weapon and back again. "Last," she echoes. Realization hits her like a slap in the face. "We aren't going to walk away from this," she says slowly, her eyes narrowing, "Are we?"

The exhaustion pours off Darcy in waves, "One way or another, this is the last time."

Jane swallows nervously, eyeing the weapon with a new respect. She should have seen it before. Any force strong enough to pull in Loki would certain pull in anyone else nearby. All the SHIELD agents. Darcy. Herself. "Suicide mission," she whispers, aching for this world all over again.

"Hey," Darcy interrupts, "Least we get to go out as big, goddamn heroes, right?"

"Right," Jane whispers, her eyes once again glued to the weapon. A few numbers. A few changes. And if they were willing to die for it… It was just so wrong. And even with Darcy looking so tired, so worn out, so almost hopeful for an end, it was still wrong. She presses a sequence of buttons quickly, before she can change her mind or consider just how great this treason truly is.

"Weapon check complete?" a brusque voice asks. A single SHIELD agent stands before them, a tight salute completed before Jane can quite process it.

She is silent for a moment. "Yes," she says finally, the word tearing itself from her slowly.

She blinks as the agent takes it away. She feels sick to her stomach. This, she thinks, might just be her greatest betrayal.

* * *

They give her a cleaner set of clothes: military grey cotton sweatpants and a plain, white t-shirt. There are a lot of jokes now, about how this is the end of the line. About how they should enjoy the last of everything. They're at the bitter end of it now. Her stomach churns. This is the worst world. The world where Loki is not defeated by the Avengers. She hopes he sees it the way she does.

She remembers standing with him in that marketplace, on an Earth that wasn't. She remembers the fire in his eyes, the silken promise of his words. Equals, he had said, he would have made them equals with the gods. She doesn't see that here, in the dust and the dirt and the ashes. She sees destruction. She sees endings. She sees death.

**You see the work of Thanos**, the spirit tells her softly.

_You want to believe that_, she replies, her thoughts turning to eyes that burned, _There are no excuses for being a villain_. _His words._

**But do you believe them?**

Jane has no response to that. How can she? The spirit feels otherwise, and Jane is already half lost.

In silence, the agents lead her out to their trap. They head to the centre of an abandoned park, past rusted swing sets and crippled trees. Dead leaves brush past Jane's worn boots. She thinks it might be May, but the trees here are dead. There is no green. Only grey and the dull yellow of park grass that grew too tall and then died too fast. They make their way into a field, dry grasses scratching against their legs, and come to a circle of white cement, worn and crushed along the far edge. It forms a stage of sorts; the kind of place a city would have community orchestras play summer concerts in. It's wide and empty, with clear lines of sight. There can be no ambush here, except, of course, the one they have planned.

She sighs, rubbing her bare arms in discomfort. She's a poisoned offering, and the role doesn't sit well with her. Especially knowing what she knows. She strains her eyes north. There's a small pocket of brush. Beneath it, the agents have slowly and with all manner of stealth, dug a hole large enough for a pair of them to lie prone with the weapon in their arms. She doesn't really see the point.

"Is this it then?" he asks, appearing from nowhere. He sighs dramatically, "I had so expected something more from the last, best hope of humanity."

Jane turns to face him. She hasn't realized how tired she is until this very moment, hearing his voice. She's worn out by his insincerity and his games. She's weary of him calling all of the shots. "Loki," she acknowledges, rubbing her hands tensely over her hips.

She can hear the outraged cries behind her as a few, scatted Chitauri disarm the agents by her side. From the corner of her eyes, she can see their hulking forms, terrifyingly vicious and inhuman. They look ready to tear their captives apart, their heads tilted as if merely waiting for the order. She wonders if she's supposed to give Loki credit for not giving it.

His smirk is back in place, his eyes cold and only the slightest bit cruel as he gazes down upon her. The gold of his armour gleams. The scepter he holds luminous and sparking. Her eyes stray to the bright blue orb it holds. She feels herself swallow reflexively, though she doesn't understand why.

**The scepter,** the spirit clarifies, **Is of Thanos. The power it contains, the control it holds…**

"You should have thrown that thing away," she says as she motions towards the weapon.

"This?" Loki raises it ever so slightly, "But this is power!"

With the taste of ash in her mouth, Jane shakes her head, "It's a lie."

His expression falls ever so slightly, disappointment in his eyes. "Still trying to find my redemption, Jane?" he mocks.

"Why do you insist on fighting it?" she snaps back.

In the distance, she can hear the commotion. They've worked their way through the power-up program by now, removed the safety. They would have pressed the button, made peace with their deaths. And it wouldn't have come.

She watches him as his gaze strays over the moving brush. "Are they quite ready to fire whatever it is they've been building?" he asks conversationally.

"What I've been building," she corrects softly. His eyes turn back to hers, and she sees now the hated swirl of blue in his irises, "And I suspect they've already tried." His eyes widen, darting between the two figures being hauled up from the ground by the aliens under his command and than back to Jane.

"I see," he says after a long moment, "Conspiring against your own now, Jane?"

Somewhere behind her, Jane can hear a muffled curse. A Chitauri growls warningly, and the voice falls silent.

"Have you looked at this world?" she says, directing her attention forward instead. "Have you really looked at what has happened to it?"

He blinks slowly. "War is never kind," he begins, his voice surprisingly quiet.

"But it isn't what you want," she presses, "You wanted to rule something worth ruling. Something strong, something worthy. Something whole."

His eyes are focused on her, blue and green warring in their depths. "It will be strong," he grates, "And it would be whole, if your precious people wouldn't fight so…"

"We have to fight," she interrupts. "_You_ have to fight, Loki. This is isn't you. This isn't what you want."

His lips part in a snarl, his teeth bared. "What is this then? What great insight has your precious spirit shared with you now?"

Jane licks her lips. "Look around you," she breathes, "This is destruction. This is the end of things." She watches his head turn with a jerk, his eyes staring warily around him, seeing what he hasn't quite seen. "This is Thanos," she whispers, "This is all he wants. All he plans. And when its all burned to ash, he'll destroy you too."

"And do you think," he says finally, closing the distance between them with several rapid steps, "That I don't already know that?" His voice is a bitter hiss, his eyes flashing green for the barest moment, "Do you think, in all the time I spent in that damned cell, that I didn't dissect out the very source of the mistakes I made?" He flings the scepter in his hand away from him, the metal clattering upon the cement, "Do you really think that any invasion _I_ had planned would involve _might_ and _force_?"

She's very still, her face lifted so that she can meet his burning gaze. "No," she says softly, "I know it wouldn't."

Behind them, she can hear the shuffle of armour and metal. "The weapon?" she hears an agent demand. The scratch of Chitauri feet across cement tells her the agents with the weapon have been brought here.

"Busted," she hears one of them hiss, "The goddamn thing powered back down!"

"Fost-" the first agent snarls, the sound dying as a heavy thud signals a body slumping to the ground. The Chitauri shift uneasily, exchanging a series of strange clicks.

Her eyes never leave Loki's throughout the exchange. She watches him consider her, his eyes narrowing. "So what then," he begins slowly, "Do you propose?"

She juts her chin forward. "We fix this," she says, "We can put things right. Rebuild the cities. End the fighting. End the destruction."

His eyes swirl with blue. She watches his jaw tighten. Green flashes back through, "You ask for a lot," he says through grinding teeth.

"You really don't know," she whispers in amazement, "What I know."

He raises an eyebrow for an instant before his eyes slam shut. His head tilts, shakes, turns back towards her. His eyes flicker between blue and green. "And what is that?" he bites, pain straining from his words as his hands flex helplessly at his sides.

"Thanos…" she begins to explain.

"Jane?" the incredulous voice demands from behind Loki. Betrayal arcs through the single syllable, and by the time Loki has turned away from her, Jane has already met Darcy's wide-eyed gaze.

"Darcy," whispers, horror gripping hold of her heart as she watches the pistol in Darcy's hands shake.

"This was," Darcy begins with tremulous words, "The last chance, Jane. The last hope. And you…" She sucks in a violent breath between narrow lips, "You _betrayed_ us?" Her eyes are locked on the hairsbreadth of space between her body and Loki's, "Trying to make a deal with the devil?" Her hands shake around the pistol, "You know you can't trust him."

"Darcy," Jane begins again, words escaping her. Her mind is drawing a blank. Even the spirit is befuddled, struggling to comprehend this sudden turn of events.

The sound is so very loud. So loud and so sudden. She feels Loki's arms wrap around her as she falls to her knees. She can't take her eyes off of Darcy. The gun is shaking in her hands still as she points it back upon herself. Tears fall from her face like rain. She doesn't say a word before she pulls the trigger a second time in the space of a minute. A keening wail escapes Jane's chest, and still, she doesn't understand why everything seems to be happening at a distance. She watches Darcy's body collapse. Watches the blood pool out, crimson splatter across the white concrete.

"No, no, no," she hears someone say. She feels her lips moving, realizes that its her voice speaking.

"Jane," Loki cuts through the haze, his mouth at her ear and his arms holding her tight. He stares down at her, his fingers cupping her chin and turning her head with a gentleness she doesn't remember him ever having shown before. He's settling her down onto the ground. She can feel the coolness through the sweatpants. Suddenly, she feels very cold. She meets his gaze finally, focus returning as she sinks into his emerald eyes. His dark, sad eyes.

She gasps. The pain washes over her in a tidal wave, and she only looks for a second down at the red that is soaking and spreading out across the white t-shirt she wears. She chokes back a strangled laugh, coughing on something wet and metallic in her throat. This then, is how it ends.

Her fingers grip hold of Loki's armour. "Jane," he says, "Jane, I can..."

She shakes her head fiercely, "No!" She struggles to take a breath, "This is… this is how it should go. I…" His eyes are locked on hers, and she thinks, dimly, that its nice that they are the last thing she will ever see. She's always loved beautiful things. The spirit flutters across her brain, its panic bleeding into her sudden calm. "I want," she tries to tell him, "I want this. I want to end… while I still know I'm me. I don't think… I wouldn't want to be her. I don't…" Her thoughts are messy and disjointed. "I'm glad its over," she whispers. And its true, she realizes. She's glad its over. There's a peace in this that even the desperate fluttering of the spirit can't take from her. There's a peace in staring up into Loki's haunted green eyes. She's shaken him. Maybe that means something.

"Just fix it," she breathes, a serene sigh that seems easy somehow. The pain is far away now.

"Fix it?" she hears him exclaim with bitter frustration in his voice. "When, Jane Foster," he demands, "Did you end up knowing more than me?" He punctuates it with a shake that should hurt. She finds herself laughing instead. She's surrounded by the memory of stars, of worlds, of impossible things. He's like a child, maybe. Demanding things of the world when it doesn't really care. She hopes he figures it all out.

She looks into his eyes, his bright, emerald eyes, and she sighs. There are worlds where she's loved him. _She_ has loved him. Not a spirit living in her skin, but her own self. So maybe, maybe she can know… that she could have loved him.

Jane Foster's eyes flutter closed.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_A/N: As a head's up, I have not read any Marvel comics dealing with Thanos. I do, however, know the proper canon backstory for Thanos thanks to the Marvel wiki. I warn you now, I will be borrowing heavily from that, but will be making my own modifications to it to make it work with this story. And when I say modifications, I mean I'm putting my own twist on it, with heavy canon-altering implications. Of course, this is fanfiction, so I doubt any of you will mind._

* * *

_**Chapter Sixteen**_

For the briefest second, Jane feels a calm acceptance. Since the moment she found herself held in the weighty grasp of the frost giant, she has contemplated how much easier things would be if this was simply over. The guilt. The search. The surprise. The fear. If it were all over… Even in Darcy's words, in her eyes in that moment before she turned the gun onto herself, she's seen the reflection of this most secret wish. For rest. For peace. For an end to this uncertain war within herself.

Then, breath stutters into her lungs. Jane opens her eyes. She wobbles slightly as a sound akin to a sob escapes her lips. She closes her eyes.

She's supposed to be dead.

"Ms. Portman?" the young woman standing in front of her inquires, a note of concern woven through her reedy voice, "Are you alright?"

_Am I alright?_ she echoes, railing against the spirit, _This is your fault, isn't it? This is you… This is… I was ready to die!_

There is a second of silence. **That is not entirely true**, the spirit hums through her skull.

Jane opens her eyes, grinding her teeth as she does so, _I was ready_, she repeats, _You were not. Don't worry, I get it, I'm just the host here, right?_

"Ms. Portman?" the young woman quails, hugging the tablet in her arms closer to her chest as if she is wishing she could hide behind it.

**If you were so eager to die**, the spirit retorts, **Then you would have finished telling Loki about Thanos. You would not have left me such obvious bait with which to tempt him. **

The blood drains from Jane's face as the truth hits her hard. _I,_ she stutters in her own head_, You think I consciously made that choice? I was dying!_

**And I should trust only your conscious choices?** the spirit flutters through her memories like a flipbook, **You are not always entirely honest with your own self, Jane. **

Jane blinks, teetering again. She reaches out and lets a hand settle on the young woman's shoulder, "I don't," she begins, "I don't feel well. And these heels…"

The woman immediately throws one arm around her and guides her into the closest chair. "I told them so!" she mutters fiercely, "I told them you'd want Te Casan's. And I told them that you take your coffee black. I bet that cream they added was off. You know how these movie sets are. No attention to detail anywhere unless its going on screen!"

Jane stares helplessly at the woman, letting her fuss over her as she slides the uncomfortable heels from Jane's own feet, refusing to let Jane even lean down to help. She's trying desperately to identify the woman, to explain the situation she's in, or even to figure out what her name is in this place. "April," she says finally, allowing the spirit to place the right syllables onto her tongue.

The young woman flashes her gaze up to Jane's, "Ms. Portman," she begins, "I know, I'm failing miserably at this assistant thing, but please, please let me try just a bit harder! It's… it's been my dream to work with you. I've seen all your movies…"

"Movies?" Jane whispers, feeling light-headed. She looks down at April's distraught expression and sighs. "I'm sorry, April," she says finally, "I've had a really bad…" _Week? _she wonders, _Month?_ Time has ceased to have meaning for her.

"I know!" April wails alarmingly, "And I will do everything in my power to make everything better. I swear it."

Jane shakes her head and just stops talking. She's getting nowhere fast.

And she's supposed to be dead.

* * *

It takes her the better part of an hour to figure out that she is, in fact, a well-known actress in this world. She sits patiently as they push her through makeup and hair, all the while rattling on about how perfect she is for this role, how disappointing it is that she's done so few romantic comedies, how gorgeous she really is. It's flattering, but also disconcerting. She's not an actress. She doesn't know any lines. She doesn't even know what the title of this movie is supposed to be. And she certainly doesn't understand the shifty winks the hair stylist keeps flashing at April while commenting on how funny it is that she's agreed to do a romantic comedy with this particular past co-star, when she does so few romantic comedies.

Finally, she rolls her eyes. "Alright, what are you insinuating?" she barks in a tone she thinks maybe she's picked up from Loki.

The stylist falls quiet, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I just think," he begins grandly, "That Tom is an amazing person. I mean, the charity work, that smile…"

"That smile," April agrees, nodding fiercely.

The stylist shrugs, "I'm just saying. He plays a good villain, but that doesn't make him one, right?"

Jane shifts awkwardly in her seat. Her eyes dance between April and the stylist. There is a dark suspicion rising in her gut. "Okay," she says slowly, "He's a great guy. I'm still not seeing your point."

The stylist purses his lips and shakes his head exaggeratedly, "You can try to hide it, honey, but I ain't buying." He slides a comb from his belt and gets back to work on her hair, "Look," he murmurs into her ear, "All I know is that I've seen a whole lot of movies, and when there's chemistry in a scene where one character is slapping the other, well, that's gotta be a romance eventually."

Jane stares at her reflection and considers the dark suspicion in her gut. "What scene are you referring to?" she asks, as coolly as she can, channeling all the ice she's picked up off Loki.

The stylist flicks her head with the comb in his nimble fingers, "You know what scene. Dark World. Didn't matter that your character was supposed to be seeing Thor. Anyone with eyes could see…"

The rest of his words are lost over Jane's head. She's too busy trying to keep herself from hyperventilating over the fact that this stylist has just mentioned Thor as if he's a character in a movie. Which might just mean, if she's an actress in this world, that her real life is just a movie here.

"April?" a man's voice calls, "We're ready for Ms. Portman. I'm assuming you gave her the updated lines for Scene Eight?"

"Yes!" April says a bit too quickly, "Last night. We should be good to go?" She turns to nod at Jane at the last, a question in her eyes.

Jane feels pale, though she doubts anyone will notice through all the layers of makeup that have been applied. She nods weakly and stumbles to her feet, dread in her veins. Any second, she'll be thrown up in front of a camera, and she won't have a single word to say.

Except that she does.

Because the second they pull the dressing gown from her shoulders and April gives her a little nudge onto the actual set, her eyes fall on the man she is supposed to act out a romance with. This supposed "Tom" with his smile and his charity work.

"Oh, hell no," she breathes. Two cameras swivel towards her and the director raises his head for only a brief moment to check over her wardrobe. The man at the other end of the plywood and plaster set turns on his heel and grins at her.

"Not you!" she exclaims, "I will not…"

"But why not?" he mocks in a way that borders on charming, his green eyes shining at her in amusement.

She stares at him for a long second. "I wanted," she begins, "I asked for one thing. One thing, Loki!"

Confused whispers rise up behind her, and she can feel the pressure of uncertain eye upon her. She keeps her back straight, refusing to acknowledge them. She keeps her eyes locked on Loki, who looks as unrepentant as ever.

"Fine," she spits, "You know what? I'm done." The whispers behind her are getting louder. The director has finally given the set his full attention and is staring at her in confused wonder. She reaches down and only wobbles a little as she shucks the ridiculous high heeled shoes from her feet. "I'm done!" she exclaims again, her temper rising at how silent and still everyone is, watching her as if she has grown an extra head.

She stands straight, the heels dangling from one hand, and stares Loki straight in the eyes. "I'm done with all of this crap. And I'm done with your stupid smirk. And I'm done with," she trails off as she realizes that he is simply staring at her calmly. She swallows back a scream of frustration and hurls the heels at him. She'd slap him too, but that hasn't seemed to have any effect yet, and the stylist's words are haunting her now. She doesn't even wait to see if the shoes find their mark (they won't) before she turns and storms off of the set. She brushes past cables and camera equipment and the still-surprised expressions of the cast and crew.

She finds a door and swings it open, her breath coming in shuddering gasps that tear through her lips. She feels flushed and anger is simmering through her veins. She faces a parking lot full of cars. Full of cars and she has no keys. She supposes her feet will still work. Even if they are bare.

She makes it three steps out of the door before his hand settles upon her shoulder. He pulls her back, spinning her as he does so, forcing her feet to dance across the rough asphalt until she is held still by his arms. One hand rests on her captured shoulder, the other dangles a set of keys in front of her widened eyes. "You may need these," he murmurs a little hoarsely, "If you truly intend to run away."

She swallows hard, her breathing still heavy. Her blood pumps loudly through her veins. "And you're what?" she licks her lips, "Just going to let me?"

He smirks at that, his emerald eyes shining as his lips twitch, "Whoever said you were allowed to run away from me? I am merely giving you the option of avoiding the repetition of that particularly scene." He motions the hand holding the keys towards the building behind them.

She twists her lips into a grimace. "Fine," she snaps, plucking the keys from his grip, "But I'm driving."

* * *

The car is a lovely thing. A sleek, cherry red convertible with clean lines and what might be racing tires. And she's suddenly and desperately pleased that Eric forced her to learn to drive standard.

She drops into the driver's seat with a huff, patently ignoring the way Loki slides into the passenger's side with predatory grace and assurance. She fidgets with the seat and the mirrors. He lounges lazily, leaning his head back as he watches her fuss. He doesn't say a word.

She puts the keys into the ignition. She doesn't turn them. She sits still instead, letting the silence between them fall. "Why?" she says finally, turning her head to look at him, "Why? After I asked you not to, after I…" the words are deadweight on her tongue, "After I asked you to let me die."

He doesn't move his head, makes no real indication that he has even heard her. He watches her instead, his gaze flashing between her furrowed brow and her accusing eyes and the rise and fall of her chest. One eyebrow lifts as he puzzles over her. He finally turns his head so he looks forward instead. "Your spirit," he begins, his voice clear and succinct, "Told me that I needed you. Mocked me, in fact, with the idea that you know more than I do. That you know something I should know. About Thanos." His tilts his head back to look at her, "And so I did what I needed to so that I could know." He smiles a brittle smile.

Jane jerks her head stiffly, "And what if she was lying?"

"Well," he licks his lips slowly, "There is always that possibility. Except that you had begun to say something to that effect yourself before the gun was fired."

Jane stares at him mutely. Waits stubbornly for him to continue.

He sighs, "Jane, Jane, Jane, whatever will we do with you?" He shakes his head, "Plucky, brilliant little mortal that you are, you never propose what you do not have a plan for."

"A plan?" she echoes, "You think I have a plan to take on Thanos?" She forces incredulity into her voice.

His lips twitch, "You were more convincing in Stuttgart."

Jane's mouth falls into a tight frown, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Honesty, Jane," he reaches for the hand that still rests on the keys that sit frozen in the ignition. He turns her hand delicately, his fingers resting lightly upon the fragile bones of her wrist. "You have too much of it," he adds in a murmur that can barely be heard above the purr of the engine, "So you will tell me what you know."

Jane swallows hard, her hand twitching in Loki's fingers. She is still as his hand slithers away, leaving hers free to drive. She hesitates only a moment before backing the car out of the parking lot. There is, after all, no reason for them to stay.

The convertible hums under her hands, and she almost enjoys the mechanical motions of changing gears and the bright alertness she's called on to get them out of the movie studio grounds. There are wary eyes on the both of them, as if the story of her blow-up has already made the rounds. She ignores them, and she suspects, if the leisurely stretch of Loki's body and the half-lidded gaze he's directed forwards suggest anything, that he couldn't even begin to care.

They make it out onto real roads before he shows even the faintest hint of continuing to question her. "So," he begins, his voice a low drawl, "Where are we headed?"

"I was going to take Santa Monica Boulevard. Then turn onto the East Pacific…" she trails off, watching the smirk stretch across his lips. "What?" she demands suspiciously.

"Always a plan, dear Jane," he replies, smug in his vindication.

She grinds her teeth and is quietly thankful that he stays silent for the next thirty-five minutes as she works her way through Los Angeles traffic.

It isn't that she doesn't have a plan. She does, actually. Or rather, they do, she and the spirit together. But it is a crazy plan. One that relies entirely on her accepting that she and the spirit are, or at least will be, one entity. And it will take time. And it will keep her glued to Loki's side. It's a plan that works entirely in the spirit's favour and not at all in hers. Except that it is for the greater good, and she supposes that that does count for something. It just tastes vaguely like sacrifice. Her sacrifice.

He waits for the city to dissolve into forest and beach houses. Six lanes of highway stretch into a linear eternity of asphalt and paint. "Well?" he prompts without a hint of impatience.

"It isn't much of a plan," she hedges.

She watches from the corner of her eye as he turns his head to watch trees and scrubby green blur past them. "Any plan is more of a plan than I have," he admits just under his breath.

There's a sudden lump in her throat. The California sun shines down on him, and she realizes that his skin is too tan, his hair too light, his clothing too normal. She's become used to him, she realizes, used to his paleness and his coldness and his regal attitudes. Even though there have been plenty of worlds in which he's been entirely different. In her eyes, he's always going to be a cold and lonely god. Even in mortal skin.

Her eyes trail back onto the highway. The wind whips through her hair, so much shorter and straighter than she is used to it being. She fights a shiver in the cream-coloured sundress she realizes now that she's stolen from the movie set. She has no idea what time of year it is here. She's never paid much attention to California's weather.

Something soft and warm settles over her shoulders and Jane startles. She meets Loki's gaze, watching him warily as he finishes tucking the blanket he's apparently pulled from the backseat around her. His eyes look almost soft in the golden hues of late afternoon. Or perhaps it is just the way he is looking at her.

The lump in her throat grows. She turns her eyes back to the road and sighs softly as the weight settles down into her stomach. "Loki," she begins softly, exhaling slowly. She feels his gaze settle on her, "I should start from the beginning, I guess. It won't make sense otherwise." She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, "Have you ever heard of a race that call themselves the Eternals?"

His jaw tightens, but he gives nothing else away, "Enlighten me."

Jane swallows hard, "A very long time ago," she begins, "In the universe we actually belong in, there was a race called the Eternals. They were, of course, immortal, or as close as any of you are." She shies away from the bitter note in her own voice as she contemplates the inequalities of life spans. "One of them," she continues, "Was different. Or at least, he felt he was different. He was alone, so much of the time. He was lonely, and it fed his hunger for knowledge. And then it became a hunger for power."

She pauses as a series of faster moving cars leapfrog up the highway towards them, desperate to eat up the highway beneath them. She dodges their maneuvers and then turns her head halfway to spy on Loki. He doesn't like this story, she thinks, it hits a little too close to home. His head is oddly bowed, his eyes turned from her. She turns her eyes back to the road. She doesn't want to see him compare himself to the monster who controls his mind in more worlds than she even wants to know. She doesn't want to turn her own mind down this path and wonder… wonder just how close to it she has strayed herself.

"Eventually," she picks up the thread, "He exhausted his society's understandings of science and magic, and he began to pursue his own creations. And he discovered a hole in the fabric of the universe. In fact, he discovered a lot of them. He began to think of the universe as a tapestry of strings. Like matter, it looks whole, but is mostly empty. So he reached through, and he pulled. And because he wasn't alone in being alone, there was something waiting for him on the other side. Something that came more than willingly enough."

"A dark spirit," Loki says slowly, his voice sounding tired. His eyes are focused upon her now, "I would assume."

"Exactly," Jane pauses, "But," she feels the spirit struggling against her, fighting to put words in her mouth. She sighs, lets it have its way, "But there are divisions among us." Jane watches as Loki's eyes dart up to meet hers, narrowing suspiciously at the change in pronouns. "There are factions," the spirit tells him in her voice, "Some of us have watched the worlds and wanted nothing more than to be a part of them. To live, to feel, to love. These are… precious and strange things." For a moment, the spirit is quiet, moving behind her eyes as Jane juggles the need to see the road herself. "But some of us feel that life is a harsh, violent, ugly thing. They feel that the universe should be ordered. That chaos should be ended."

Loki's jaw is tense, his eyes watching her fiercely, "I thought you were all chaotic?"

"We started that way. Time has a way of changing things."

Loki nods stiffly, his gaze turning out the window to watch the rapid green blur of vegetation as they passed. "If you end chaos," he says quietly, "You end life."

The spirit nods Jane's head miserably, "A perfectly ordered universe is a perfectly empty and still universe. A dead universe. Order only exists in death."

"And it was one of these spirits which the Eternal pulled through."

"And more than pulled through," Jane's voice sounds strained as the spirit measures out the ancient past, "He poured it into himself. The first possession by a being of the void. And together," Jane's throat moves under the spirit's own sense of nervousness, "Together they became Thanos. Obsessive about perfection. The perfection of perfect destruction. Of death."

Loki falls quiet again, "And now here you are, trapped inside of Jane."

"I wouldn't call it a trap," the spirit murmurs, "It is everything I've ever wanted. To be a part of life."

"So," Loki mutters darkly, "You would have me believe what? That you are the force of good? That together, you and Jane can defeat Thanos?"

Jane frowns, shifting her hands around the steering wheel. She forces her hair back from her face and stares out at the empty beach to her left. "Not us alone," the spirit murmurs with her own tongue.

Loki looks at her sharply, "You want me to use you as a battery. To take on Thanos myself."

"It isn't that crazy," Jane says, reclaiming her tongue. "You said magic is about wanting something the right way…"

"I may have been oversimplifying."

"I'd kinda assumed that," she says wryly, "But it doesn't matter. You said it yourself, that with the spirit I'm basically an unending power source. You can use that."

His laughter is short and harsh and ugly. "Your plan is to throw me at Thanos, when he has control over my mind in nearly every world in which he and I both exist?"

Jane grips the steering wheel tighter, "We think we can do something about that."

"We?" amusement lingers beneath the word.

"Think about it," she offers, "If Thanos can control minds, then it is a logical stretch that it is an ability that we should have too. Or at least, could learn."

"You want to remove Thanos' control by exerting your own?" his dry laughter grates across her nerves. "Dear Jane, what makes you believe that I want you and your spirit in my head any more than I want Thanos?"

"We wouldn't stay," she promises, the spirit's words sitting on top of her own, "It'd only be long enough to remove whatever influence Thanos has."

"It is an excellent way to break free of the limitations of a magic-less mortal host."

Jane's breath leaves her in a huff. His logic is a slap in the face. It stings that she hasn't seen something so obvious herself. She makes an unhappy sound in her throat, "You make it sound like I'm its prison," she murmurs.

"You don't see yourself as such?"

"You don't think I'm the prisoner?" she turns her head to look at him, "You know what its like to have another mind in your head." She focuses her gaze out upon the road, "How do you trust your thoughts when you stop being certain whose they really are? How do you trust what you feel when you can't tell where the line is?"

He is silent for a long time, though his eyes never leave her. She can feel their pressure. "What I've felt," he says softly, "Has been nothing like that."

The world is stained in golden light and Jane shifts in her seat. "I don't think," she admits, "That the spirit can leave me. I don't think she actually wants to. She doesn't want power."

"Yet she's constructed this little plan."

Jane shakes her head, "I…" She frowns, "We came up with the plan. It's blurry where the ideas came from, who put them in order. I don't…" Her voice dies in her throat, "I'm losing track of where I end and the spirit begins."

He is quiet at that, considering what she's said, she supposes. Beach houses return to the sandy space on their right and they continue to travel into the late afternoon sun. The wind blows past. The blanket around her shoulders gets pulled closer.

"There is another option," he says finally, his voice pulling her from her simple enjoyment of the sun and the wind. "I could teach you. How to use magic."

"And I could learn," she agrees, turning to meet his gaze, "But I don't really think that is the safest option. Maybe I should know a little, but… Isn't giving me that much power a recipe for disaster?"

His darkened eyes watch her carefully, "So you don't trust it completely."

"I don't trust anything completely, anymore."

He frowns and turns his gaze back upon the road. "You're lucky," he says finally, "The hardest part about learning how to use magic is learning how to harness it, and where to harness it from. The Aesir teach their young to pull it in from the Realm Eternal itself, then they bind it into their weapons and bond that power to the wielders."

Jane turns her head to look at him strangely, "So Asgardians only have magic when they have their weapons?" She watches him nod morosely. "You don't," she begins, "You don't have a weapon like that."

"No," he agrees, his voice smooth as silk, "I discovered very early on that I had other sources of magic available to me."

She turns her gaze back onto the road before them, but keep Loki squarely in the corner of eye. "How?" she asks, not liking the way his expression has darkened as he chases down these particular thoughts.

"The Jotun," his lips twist into something angry and self-loathing, "Have a magic that is woven into their very beings. Ice magic."

Jane shakes her head, "That still isn't enough. Even with both types of magic, that doesn't explain the things you do. Your magic kept you alive in the void, and you wouldn't have access to the Realm Eternal or your body…" she trails off as he turns a burning gaze towards her. "Oh," she gasps, "You don't…" She licks her lips nervously, "Loki, if… if Laufey was your father, who was your mother? Your real mother, I mean?"

If looks could kill, she would be dead. She's certain of it. He looks every bit as violent and angry as she's ever seen him, and the softness of a human appearance is doing nothing to make him look less murderous. A strange sort of disquiet spreads through Jane, and she can feel the spirit snagging onto this strange idea with wonder. Loki doesn't know what he is. He doesn't know where his magic comes from. He has no explanation for what he is or what he can do. He truly has no known place in the world. In any world, perhaps.

Jane turns her head quickly, unable to look at him for a moment longer. "You don't," she begins again, the words dying on her lips. Her mouth is dry. "You don't trust yourself, either, do you?" she manages finally, "We're all unknowns."

"So you understand the risk then," his voice is bitter.

She takes a deep breath and turns the car very suddenly off the road and into park. Her hands are shaking on the steering wheel and her heart hurts. "Yeah," she sighs, "Yeah, I get it. We trust the spirit, and we either end up being the good guys who save worlds, or we doom them all."

They sit quietly in the unmoving car for a very long time.

Neither of them are heroes.


End file.
